oth­er skies, in new coun­tries, or under the green grass. But the remem­brance of them, and of the days by Yarrow and Ettrick and Tweed, is a pos­ses­sion for­ev­er, ten­der and not alto­geth­er sad. The old waters still mur­mur, the old songs are still sung, the old names echo in mem­o­ry. In the soli­tudes of the streams, under the shad­ows of the tow­ers and woods, per­haps, even now, the fairy deer may be seen by chil­dren’s eyes, and the Sil­ver Lady of the Scotts may glide through the copse or stand with her foot in the pool, as in the tale of Thomas the Rhymer.