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Robert Burns - From Lines To William Simson
Work rating: Medium

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
    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.
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