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And where the patriot and the sage,
That slumber here,
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!
That captivates my very will.
He death to brave, And where from stern misfortune hard
He sought a grave.
Next that unrivalled lovely spot,
The friendly, gifted, generous Knox,
And her sae fair aye—
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,
Her vernal pall.
All, hail, thy lovely heath-clad heights,
As those by Nature's hand unrolled—
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,