Written With A Pencil, Over The Chimney-Piece, In The Parlour Of The Inn At Kenmore, Taymouth.

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace,         These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;         O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,         Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,         My savage journey, curious I pursue,         'Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.         The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,         The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;         Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,         The eye with wonder and amazement fills;         The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride,         The palace, rising on its verdant side;         The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;         The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;         The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;         The village, glittering in the noontide beam.              *             *             *             *             *         Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,         Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell:         The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;         Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.              *             *             *             *             *         Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,         And look through Nature with creative fire;         Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,         Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;         And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,         Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds:         Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,         And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.              *             *             *             *             *