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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?
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?
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 ! 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,

Thrice hallow'd pile, where all within
Accords with thy exterior mien.
Hail that recess, where first the light
Illumed the eye of genius bright;
The simple table, in its turn,

All nearly through with letters worn;
The portrait of immortal Burn,

His country's pride,

Beneath where here the bard was born,
And where he died.

Next "Auld Kirk Alloway," all hail!
What Muse when here that turns not pale,
As we thy haunted precincts near,
Recalling scenes enacted here,

Which yet thy crumbling gables two
Confirm too plainly to be true?
But mark" the winnock in the east,
Whare sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast,

Wha screwed his pipes and gaurt them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' played dirl;"

The door through which, ere Maggie rallied,
The motley hellish legion sallied,

In fiendish vengeance, speed, and might,
Pursuing Tam, poor luckless wight,

Which put him in a dismal plight,

Despite his care,

Upon that memorable night

He passed from Ayr.

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