verses 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 to my view.—

    the meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,

    the woods wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;

    th' outstretching lake, imbosomed '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 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,

    misfortunes 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.