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From Lines to William Simson by Robert Burns
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
Ramsay and famous Fergusson
Yarrow and Tweed to mony a tune
Owre Scotland rings;
While Irvin, Lugar, Ayr an' Doon
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.