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A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Ev'n as I was he shor'd me; But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,

In twisting strength I rin ;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,

Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
Ås Nature

gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel,

Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please

To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,

And bonie spreading bushes; Delighted doubly then, my Lord,

You'll wander on my banks, And listen monie a grateful bird

Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober lav'rock, warbling wild,

Shall to the skies aspire ;
The gowdspink music's gayest child,

Shall swoetly join the choir;
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,

The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer;

In all her looks of yellow : This too, a covert shall ensure,

To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure,

Low in her grassy form;

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,

To weave his crown of flow'rs; Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat,

From prone descending show'rs. And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,

Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth

As empty, idle care.
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms,

The hour of heav'n to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms,

To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,

Some musing Bard may stray,
And eye the sinoking, dewy lawn,

And misty mountain, grey;
Or, by the reapers's nightly team,

Mild chequ’ring thro' the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,

My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,

Their shadows' wat'ry bed;
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest

My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster's nest,

The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia's darling hope,

Your little angel band, Spring, like their father's, up to prop

Their honor'd native land,

So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,

To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be-"Athole's honest men,

"And Athole's bonie lasses !!!

LINES

Written, with a Pencil, over the chimney-piece, in

the Parlor of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er inany 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 his 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 noon-tide beam-

Poetic ardors 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 thro' 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 sooth her bitter, ranklíng wounds;
Her heart-struck Grief might heav'n-ward stretch

her scan,

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

LINES

Written, with a Pencil, standing by the fall of

Fyers, near Loch-ness.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
Where, through a shapeless breach, bis stream re-
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, [sounds.
As deep recoiling surges foam below,
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils-

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