The pride o’ a’ our Scottish plain;
Thou gi’es us joy to hear thy strain,
And notes sae sweet;
Old Ramsay’s shade, reviv’d again,
In thee we greet.
Lov’d Thallia, that delightful muse,
Seem’d long shut up as a recluse:
To all she did her aid refuse,
Since Allan’s day,
Till Burns arose, then did she choose