From Lines to William Simson Analysis

1Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,
2She's gotten poets o' her ain--
3Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
4But tune their lays,
5Till echoes a' resound again
6Her weel-sung praise.

7Nae poet thought her worth his while
8To set her name in measur'd style:
9She lay like some unken'd-of isle
10Beside New Holland,
11Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
12Besouth Magellan.

13Ramsay and famous Fergusson
15Yarrow and Tweed to mony a tune
16Owre Scotland rings;
17While Irvin, Lugar, Ayr an' Doon
18Naebody sings.

19Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine
20Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line;
21But, Willie, set your fit to mine
22And cock your crest,
23We'll gar our streams and burnies shine
24Up wi' the best!

25We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells,
26Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells,
27Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,
28Where glorious Wallace
29Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
30Frae Southron billies.

31At Wallace' name what Scottish blood
32But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
33Oft have our fearless fathers strode
34By Wallace' side,
35Still pressing onward red-wat-shod,
36Or glorious dy'd.

37O sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods,.
38When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
39And jinkin hares in amorous whids
40Their loves enjoy,
41While thro' the braes the cushat croods
42Wi' wailfu' cry!

43Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me,
44When winds rave thro' the naked tree;
45Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree
46Are hoary gray;
47Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,
48Dark'ning the day!

49O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms
50To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
51Whether the summer kindly warms
52Wi' life an' light,
53Or winter howls in gusty storms
54The lang, dark night!

55The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
56Till by himsel he learn'd to wander
57Adoun some trottin burn's meander,
58And no think lang;
59O sweet to stray and pensive ponder
60A heart-felt sang!

61The warly race may drudge and drive,
62Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch an' strive:
63Let me fair nature's face descrive,
64And I wi' pleasure
65Shall let the busy, grumbling hive
66Bum owre their treasure.

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