From Lines to William Simson

Poem by Robert Burns

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

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

Ramsay and famous Fergusson
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow and Tweed to mony a tune
            Owre Scotland rings;
While Irvin, Lugar, Ayr an' Doon
            Naebody sings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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