and rural grace;

and, wi' the far-fam'd grecian, share

a rival ce?

yes! there is ane—a scottish can!

there's ane; e forrit, honest an!

thou need na jouk behint the han,

a chiel sae clever;

the teeth o' time may gnaw tantan,

but thou's for ever.

thou paints auld nature to the nines,

in thy sweet caledonian lines;

nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines,

where philomel,

while nightly breezes sweep the vines,

her griefs will tell!

in gowany glens thy burnie strays,

where boniesses bleach their es,

or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

wi' hawthorns gray,

where ckbirds join the shepherd'sys,

at close o' day.

thy rural loves are nature's sel';

nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;

nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell

o' witchin love,

that charm that can the strongest quell,

the sternest move.