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.