Poem by Anonymous

The Bells of Fletching

THE FLETCHING bells, with silver chime,
  Come softened o’er the distant shore;
Though I have heard them many a time,
  They never sang so sweet before.

A silence rests upon the hill,
  A listening awe pervades the air;
The very flowers are shut and still,
  And bowed as if in prayer.

1. Now, Robin, Lend to Me Thy Bow
2. The Hermitage
3. Glen-Orra
4. Willy Drowned in Yarrow
5. The Northern Star

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