ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
Oer many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th abodes of coveyd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till famd Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods wild scatterd, clothe their ample sides;
Th outstretching lake, imbosomed mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay meandring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side,
The lawns wood-fringd in Natures native taste,
The hillocks dropt in Natures careless haste,
The arches striding oer the new-born stream,
The village glittering in the noontide beam
· · · · · ·Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandring by the hermits mossy cell;
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods,
Th incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods
· · · · · ·Here Poesy might wake her heavn-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcild,
Misfortunes lightend steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heavnward stretch her scan,
And injurd Worth forget and pardon man.
183. Verses Written with a Pencil at the Inn at Kenmore
written byRobert Burns
© Robert Burns