On those brave Scots who keep hotels;
Thy plain and mountain, loch and moor,
Are only dear to those who tour.
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Could e’er invite me to thy strand?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
I think of what things might have been
And shudder as I think once more
That I might ne’er have left thy shore.
Whilst songs of triumph fill my mouth,