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　　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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns