The gateway's broken arches rang; Methought grim features, seam'd with scars, 190 Glared through the window's rusty bars, And ever, by the winter hearth, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms; 195 Of patriot battles, won of old By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold; Of later fields of feud and fight, When, pouring from their Highland height, The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200 Had swept the scarlet ranks away. While stretch'd at length upon the floor, Again I fought each combat o'er, Pebbles and shells, in order laid, The mimic ranks of war display'd; 205 And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, And still the scattered Southron fled before. Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, Anew, each kind familiar face, That brighten'd at our evening fire! 210 From the thatch'd mansion's grey-hair'd Sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen, Show'd what in youth its glance had been; 215 Whose doom discording neighbours sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable Priest, Our frequent and familiar guest, Whose life and manners well could paint 220 Alike the student and the saint; Alas! whose speech too oft I broke With gambol rude and timeless joke: For I was wayward, bold, and wild, A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child; 225 But half a plague, and half a jest, Was still endured, beloved, caress'd. From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conn'd task? Nay, Erskine, nay--On the wild hill 230 Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, But freely let the woodbine twine, And leave untrimm'd the eglantine: Nay, my friend, nay--Since oft thy praise 235 Hath given fresh vigour to my lays; Since oft thy judgment could refine