Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, Anew, each kind familiar face, That brighten'd at our evening fire; From the thatch'd mansion's grey-hair'd Sire, Wise without learning, plain and good, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen, Shew'd what in youth its glance had been; Whose doom discording neighbours sought, Content with equity unbought; To him the venerable Priest, Our frequent and familiar guest, Whose life and manners well could paint Alike the student and the saint; Alas! whose speech too oft I broke Was still endured, beloved, carest. From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conn'd task? Nay, Erskine, nay-On the wild hill Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; But freely let the woodbine twine, Nay, my friend, nay-Since oft thy praise Since oft thy judgment could refine My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line, Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, And in the minstrel spare the friend, Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale! |