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.