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, 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. (0 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 screed, As whiles they're like to be my deed, (O fad disease !) I kittle up my ruftic reed; 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 praife. Nae Poet thought her worth his while, To fet her name in meafur'd ftile She lay like fome unkend-of isle ; Befide New-Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil Befouth Magellan. Ramfay an' famous Ferguson 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 fweet in monie a tunefu' line! But, Willie, fet you fit to mine, An' cock your crest, We'll gar our ftreams an' burnies shine We'll fing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, i "Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as ftory tells, Frae Southron billies. At ( 103 ) At Wallace' name what Scottish blood But boils up in a fpring-tide flood! By Wallace' fide, Still preffing onward, red-wat fhod, Or glorious dy❜d. O fweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, When lintwhites 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! G 4 O Nature! a' thy fhew an' forms Wi' life an' light, Or Winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The Muse, 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 A heart-felt fang! The warly race may drudge an' drive, Hog-fhouther, jundie, ftretch an' ftrive, Let me fair Nature's face defcrive, And I, wi' pleasure, Shall let the busy, grumbling hive Bum owre their treasure, Fareweel, |