Down Grampian’s sterile steeps young Sandy wound his way.
Hail food! hail raiment! hail that happy lot
Which lured such genius from the smoky cot,
To mingle in the ranks of breeches’d men,
And coin a name and family again!
II.
Where fam’d St. Andrew’s turrets tower on high;
Where frozen doctors lecture, doze, and die;
Where Knowledge sleeps, and Science seeks repose,
And mouldering halls more mouldering heads disclose,—