That still the pile of Melrose gray,
For you must rise in minstrel's lay,
And Yarrow's birk immortal long
For yon but bloom in rural song.
Yet Hope, who still in present sorrow
Whispers the promise of to-morrow,
Tells us of future days to come,
When you shall glad our rustic home;
When this wild whirlwind shall be still,
And summer sleep on glen and hill,
And Tweed, unvexed by storm, shall guide
In silvery maze his stately tide,
Doubling in mirror every rank
Of oak and alder on his bank;
And our kind guests such welcome prove
As most we wish to those we love." [1]

_Ashestiel, _October 13, 1811.

[1] Lines written by Walter Scott while the carriage was waiting
to convey my father and me from Ashestiel.--S. E. F.

The invitation had been often repeated, but my dear father's increasing
infirmities made him averse to leave home, and when, in compliance with
Sir Walter's urgent request, I visited Abbotsford in the autumn of 1829,
I went alone. I was met at the outer gate by Sir Walter, who welcomed me
in the kindest manner and most flattering terms; indeed, nothing could
surpass the courtesy of his address on such occasions. On our way to the
house he stopped and called his two little grandchildren, Walter and
Charlotte Lockhart, who were chasing each other like butterflies among