Ettrick Forest In November

November's sky is chill and drear
November's leaf is red and sear
Late, gazing down the steepy linn
That hems our little garden in
Low in its dark and narrow glen
You scarce the rivulet might ken
So thick the tangled greenwood grew
So feeble trill'd the streamlet through
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
Through bush and brier, no longer green
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade
Brawls over rock and wild cascade
And, foaming brown with doubled speed
Hurries its waters to the Tweed.

No longer Autumn's glowing red
Upon our Forest hills is shed
No more beneath the evening beam
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam
Away hath pass'd the heather-bell
That bloom'd so rich on Needpathfell
Sallow his brow; and russet bare
Are now the sister-heights of Yair
The sheep, before the pinching heaven
To shelter'd dale and down are driven
Where yet some faded herbage pines
And yet a watery sunbeam shines
In meek despondency they eye
The wither'd sward and wintry sky
And far beneath their summer hill
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold
And wraps him closer from the cold
His dogs no merry circles wheel
But shivering follow at his heel
A cowering glance they often cast
As deeper moans the gathering blast.