The Hostel, or Inn, II

Now why are Dunse’s people glad, Who once were wont to be so sad; How was the feudal hatred staid That waste their lovely fields had laid; Why rolls the Whittadder so white, The scene of many a bloody fight; And how has peace reception found On such unhallowed bloody ground? I may not tell the change of time; It ill becomes my minstrel rhyme: ’Twere impious surely to relate The fancied works of fancied fate. Enough, the bloody feud is staid; Enough, the sword aside is laid; And Whittadder long may’st thou flow With spotless wave and crystal tide; And may’st thou never, never know, Again the strife of border side.