The TURNBULL Legend


Between red ezlarbanks, that frightful scowl,
Fringed with grey hazel, roars the mining Roull;
Where Turnbulls once, a race no power could awe,
Lined the rough skirts of stormy Rubieslaw.
Bold was the chief from whom their line they drew,
Whose nervous arm the furious bison slew.
The bison, fiercest race of Scotia's breed,
Whose bounding course outstripped the red deer's speed,
By hunters chafed, encircled on the plain,
He frowning shook his yellow lion maine,
Spurned with black hoof in bursting rage the ground,
And fiercely toss'd his moony horns around.
On Scotia's lord he rush'd with lightning speed,
Bent his strong neck to toss the startled steed;
His arms robust the hardy hunter hung
Around his bending horns, and upward wrung,
With writhing force his neck retorted round,
And roll'd the panting monster on the ground,
Crush'd with enormous strength his bony skull;
And courtiers hailed the man who turned the bull.






from "Leyden's Scenes of Infancy", page 102A.