verses written with a pencil
  over the chimney—piece in the parlour of the inn at kenmore, taymouth.
  admiring nature in her wildest grace,
  these northern scenes with weary feet i trace;
  o'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
  th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
  my savage journey, curious, i pursue,
  till fam'd breadalbane opens to my view.—
  the meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
  the woods wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
  th' outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills,
  the eye with wonder and amazement fills;
  the tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
  the palace rising on his verdant side,
  the lawns wood-fring'd in nature's native taste,
  the hillocks dropt in nature's careless haste,
  the arches striding o'er the new-born stream,
  the village glittering in the noontide beam—
  poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
  lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;
  the sweeping theatre of hanging woods,
  th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—
  here poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
  and look through nature with creative fire;
  here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,
  misfortunes lighten'd steps might wander wild;
  and disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
  find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds:
  here heart-struck grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,
  and injur'd worth forget and pardon man.