|city in the mist 01, a photo by byronv2 on Flickr.|
The grey city of the North, mantled in her delicate mists, and lifting proudly her rude spears of rock, flings her fierce head against the sky, brooding always as men come and go in the busy streets and the narrow closes beneath.
About her beaten stones cling many shadowy tales of laughter and of tears, of love and desire and hate; of mail-clad chivalry and lurking crime. Tier on tier it rises from the estuary of the river to its crowning pride—the gaunt rock on which stands its Castle. "The rude, rough fortress,” of which Burns sang:
Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms,
And mark'd with many a seamy scar;
The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell' th' invader's shock.