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 deepsunk 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 woodfring'd in nature's native taste,
    the hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste,
    the arches striding o'er the newborn 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'ntaught 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 heartstruck grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,
    and injur'd worth forget and pardon man.