From Lines to William Simson

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' resound again

            Her weel-sung praise.

Nae poet thought her worth his while

To set her name in measur'd style:

She lay like some unken'd-of isle

            Beside New Holland,

Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

            Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay and famous Fergusson

Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon;

Yarrow and Tweed to mony a tune

            Owre Scotland rings;

While Irvin, Lugar, Ayr an' Doon

            Naebody sings.

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine

Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line;

But, Willie, set your fit to mine

            And cock your crest,

We'll gar our streams and burnies shine

            Up wi' the best!

We'll sing 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 story tells,

            Frae Southron billies.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood

But boils up in a spring-tide flood!

Oft have our fearless fathers strode

            By Wallace' side,

Still pressing onward red-wat-shod,

            Or glorious dy'd.

O sweet 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 cushat croods

            Wi' wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me,

When winds rave thro' the naked tree;

Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

            Are hoary gray;

Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

            Dark'ning the day!

O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!

Whether the summer kindly warms

            Wi' life an' light,

Or winter howls in gusty storms

            The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,

Till by himsel he learn'd to wander

Adoun some trottin burn's meander,

            And no think lang;

O sweet to stray and pensive ponder

            A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge and drive,

Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive:

Let me fair nature's face descrive,

            And I wi' pleasure

Shall let the busy, grumbling hive

            Bum owre their treasure.