Sheep on the Cheviot Hills

Graze on, graze on, there comes no soundOf border-warfare here,No slogan cry of gathering clan,No battle-axe or spear;No belted knight in armour bright,With glance of kindling ire,Doth change the sports of Chevy-ChaseTo conflict stern and dire.

Ye wist not that ye press the spotWhere Percy held his wayAcross the marches, in his prideThe "chiefest hearts to slay,"And where the stout Earl Douglas rodeUpon his milk-white steed,With fifteen hundred Scottish spearsTo stay the invader's deed.

Graze on, graze on, there's many a rill,Wild wandering through the glade,Where you may freely slake your thirst,With none to make afraid;There's many a murmuring stream that flowsFrom Cheviot's terraced side,Yet not one drop of warrior's goreDistains its crystal tide.

For Scotia from her hills hath come,And Albion o'er the Tweed,To give the mountain breeze the feudsThat made their noblest bleed,And like two friends, around whose heartsSome dire estrangement run,Love all the closer for the past,And sit them down as one.