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And where the patriot and the sage,
Embalmed in the historic page,
Eepose secluded from the view,
Beneath the mournful gloomy yew.
But, ah! the endless retinue

That slumber here,
Whom Fame, with every honour due,

Hath crowned sincere!

Hence, noble Glasgow, fare thee well;

No longer can we musing dwell

On all thy novelties around,

That wake the Muse thy praise to sound,

Which onward, onward, flaps her wing:

Thus Paisley next in turn we sing;

Which every tourist frank must own,

To be at least a charming town.

Here holds proud Art her sceptred sway:

Hail to thy manufacture gay!

But witness once those numerous halls,

Piled with her celebrated shawls,

And mark their fabric and design,

Which wizarded those eyes of mine;

O B s, ever be it thine

Fame to inherit; And bright may Fortune on thee shine,

Thou son of merit!

Health and prosperity to thee!
Paisley, thou hast a charm for me,

That captivates my very will.
Hail, favoured spot of Tannahill,
Immortal in the powers of song,
Who mused yon sylvan shades among;
Enchanting scenes which all revere,
Fraught with associations dear.
Lo to the right but cast your eyes,
"Gleniffer's braes" there gently rise;
And here the healthful and the free,
"The Bonnie Woods o' Craigie Lee;"
And, lastly, with profound regard
Now for the memory of the Bard,
The pond behold where reckless dared

He death to brave, And where from stern misfortune hard

He sought a grave.

Next that unrivalled lovely spot,
The Cemetery, who fails to note 1
With all its sweet transporting views,
What subjects for the rural Muse!
Last, Paisley shall we e'er forget
That courtesy in thee we met 1
The cup of kindness here we quaffed,
How thrice ambrosial was its draught!
Hence, far or near, roam where I may,
However Fortune chalks the way,
While social joy my soul shall thrill,
I'll warmly pledge a " Hawick gill"
To him, the prince, the pink of folks,

The friendly, gifted, generous Knox,
With open honest "Sawney" Coaks,

And her sae fair aye—
Oh the blue eyes, the auburn locks,

Of modest Mary!

Thence hail to Greenock ! hail sincere,

Thy reminiscences how dear!

Spreading thy wings, with thriving pride,

Along the classic banks of Clyde,

How sweet thy harbour to survey,

Where bustling Commerce rules the day,

Diffusing with a liberal hand

Her bones from many a distant land:

Long may she speed, unshackled be

To spread her sails and bless the free;

And raise her steam, which raised thy name,

And rolled it on the page of fame;

As Watt's distinguished native spot,

With other names of deathless note:

And where 'twas "Highland Mary's" lot

In Spring to fall,
I've stood above, with pensive thought,

Her vernal pall.

All, hail, thy lovely heath-clad heights,
Dear haunts of thy Parnassian wights!
Alone but give me there to stray,
To muse the live-long Summer day.
What pencil can such charms unfold,

As those by Nature's hand unrolled—
Landscape on landscape, rich and new,
Profusely bursting on the view,
Reminding one, as Fancy wields
Her wand, of the Elysian fields!
While doubly hail, that lovely trip—
The fairy glen of Inverkip,
And from that hamlet I adore,
To Greenock, O the magic shore,
Peerless with aught my eye before

Ere gratified;
But for a twelvemonth, ay, and more,

To sing the Clyde.

Last, welcome to the land of Burns!

Here what luxuriant returns

For all our trouble, toil, and cost!

Long shalt thou be my proudest boast,

As it has been for years my aim,

Thy scenes long consecrate to fame

For once, as now, devout to tread,

In tribute to the honoured dead.

What town in Scotia can compare

With thee, delightful lovely Ayr ]

Ah, what associations dear

Conspire the heart to wizard here!

Hail to thy " Briggs," the "auld " and " new,"

Spanning thy river's azure hue:

The recollections they renew

How dear to me!

Lo, yonder, if report be true,

The Rattan Quay.

But turn we, with enraptured thought,

Into the celebrated spot,

The Inn, where every market night,

"Fast by the ingle bleezin' bright,"

Sat Tam o' Shanter and his cronie—

His drouthy brother, Souter Johnnie.

This time-worn "quaich," which circles free,

Oft have they drained in social glee.

Had but this room, alas ! a tongue,

Where rantin' rovin' Robin strung,

By Islay streams, his softest lyre,

What stranger would it not inspire,

And to its core the bosom thrill

Would not he merry quaff the gill,

Another and another fill

Of choice Glenlivet; And list for hours wi' right good will,

You may believe it?

Still must we now resume our way,

As through an Eden fresh and gay;

Hence to that scene, by all revered,

But doubly to my soul endeared,

The humble straw-roofed, flower-wreathed cot,

Of Nature's Bard the natal spot.

Approached with deep humility,

And reverence I enter thee,

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