The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace

At length they came where gazing eye,
A scene of beauty well mote spy.
Far distant up a winding bay,
Annapolis before them lay.
Its ancient towers so stately rose,
And wore an air of calm repose;
And though the hand of slow decay,
Had stol'n its ancient pomp away;
And sometimes in the dead of night,
The listening ear of wakeful wight,
Might hear old time, relentless crone!
Heave from its base some mould'ring stone,
That trembled on the ruin'd wall,
Ready at every touch to fall,

Yet, still a noble sir it wore;
As if in distant days of yore,
Far better times it well had known,
Though now decay'd and aged grown.

University of Virginia Library

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