From a Window in Princes Street

Above the Crags that fade and gloomStarts the bare knee of Arthur's Seat;Ridged high against the evening bloom,The Old Town rises, street on street;With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead,Like rampired walls the houses lean,All spired and domed and turreted,Sheer to the valley's darkling green;Ranged in mysterious disarray,The Castle, menacing and austere,Looms through the lingering last of day;And in the silver dusk you hear,Reverberated from crag and scar,Bold bugles blowing points of war.