The night breeze may roam o'er the noble fell breast
Or sigh on old Ligil'ls rough channel so bare,
May touch up the heather on Hartside's crest,
And lull into sleep the red grouse up there.
But give me the night wind when sighing through woods,
And rustling the hazels that grow in the vale,
Or o'er the dark alders that grow by the floods,
I love it more dearly than Cross Fell's rough gale
Because when the night wind o'er the mountains blows wild,
It reminds me of storms that rage rough on the fell,
But a sigh thro' the woods speaks of autumn so mild,
And a sweet shady nook in a romantic dell.
How I love for to listen the stirring night breeze,
Whether ranging the fells with a whistle & scream,
Or sighing down Raven away to the trees,
Where Eden receives our brawling fell stream.
And in fancy to follow o'er yon meadows green,
Where Cairn flows without either mountain or hill,
Or o'er yon broad mosses where heather is seen,
Or it roves through the quarries of Scott  & old Bill.
Yes I do love to hear it wherever it blows,
Whether playing with heather or noble old trees,
Whether speaking of fells or the sweet bower rose,
A friend of my own is this evening breeze.
Renwick, 1874                                        T. J. DRYDEN.