But I'fe believe ye kindly meant it, I fud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic fatire, fidelins sklented On my poor Mufie; Tho' in fic phraifin terms ye've penn'd it, I scarce excufe ye. My fenfes wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to fpeel, Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield, The braes o' fame; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, A deathlefs name. (O Ferguson! thy glorious parts Ill fuited law's dry, mufty arts! My curfe upon your whunftane hearts, Ye Enbrugh Gentry! The tythe o' what ye wafte at cartes Wad ftow'd his pantry!" Yet Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or laffes gie my heart a fcreed, As whiles they're like to be my dead, (O fad disease!) I kittle up my ruftic reed; VN It gies me ease. Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, She's gotten Poets o' her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a' refound again Her weel-fung praise, Nae Poet thought her worth his while, To fet her name in meafur'd ftile; She lay like fome unkend-of ifle Befide New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Befouth Magellan. Ramfay an' famous Fergufon Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, Th' Illiffus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line! But, Willie, fet your fit to mine, An' cock your creft, We'll gar our ftreams an' burnies fhine We'll fing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as ftory tells, Frae Southron billies. At At Wallace' name what Scottish blood But boils up in a fpring-tide flood! Oft have our fearless fathers ftrode By Wallace' fide, Still preffing onward, red-wat fhod, Or glorious dy❜d. O fweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lint whites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy, While thro' the braes the cufhat croods With wailfu' cry! Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me When winds rave thro' the naked tree; Or frofts on hills of Ochiltree Are hoary gray; Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! E 4 O Nature! a' thy fhews an' forms To feeling, penfive hearts hae charms! Wi' life an' light, Or Winter howls, in gufty ftorms, The lang, dark night! The Mufe, nae Poet ever fand her, Till by himfel he learn'd to wander, Adown fome trotting burn's meander, An' no think lang; O fweet, to ftray an' penfive ponder The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-fhouther, jundie, ftretch an' strive, Let me fair Nature's face descrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the bufy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel, |