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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