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 on my view.—The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,The woods, wild scattered, 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-fringed 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.·········