‘Know, the great Genius of this land Has many a light aërial band, Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniously, As arts or arms they understand, Their labours ply. ‘They Scotia’s race among them share: Some fire the soldier on to dare; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption’s heart: Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art. ‘Of these am I—Coila my name; And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, Held ruling pow’r: I mark’d thy embryo-tuneful flame, Thy natal hour. ‘With future hope I oft would gaze, Fond, on thy little early ways, Thy rudely-caroll’d, chiming phrase, In uncouth rhymes,— Fired at the simple artless lays Of other times. ‘I saw thee seek the sounding shore, Delighted with the dashing roar; Or when the North his fleecy store Drove thro’ the sky, I saw grim Nature’s visage hoar Struck thy young eye. ‘Or when the deep green-mantled Earth Warm-cherish’d ev’ry flow’ret’s birth, And joy and music pouring forth In ev’ry grove, I saw thee eye the gen’ral mirth With boundless love. ‘When ripen’d fields and azure skies Call’d forth the reapers’ rustling noise, I saw thee leave their ev’ning joys, And lonely stalk, To vent thy bosom’s swelling rise In pensive walk. ‘When youthful love, warm-blushing strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, Th’ adorèd Name, I taught thee how to pour in song, To soothe thy flame. ‘I saw thy pulse’s maddening play Wild send thee pleasure’s devious way, Misled by fancy’s meteor ray, By passion driven; But yet the light that led astray Was light from Heaven. ‘I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o’er all my wide domains Thy fame extends; And some, the pride of Coila’s plains, Become thy friends. ‘Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson’s landscape-glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe With Shenstone’s art; Or pour with Gray the moving flow Warm on the heart. ‘Yet all beneath th’ unrivall’d rose The lowly daisy sweetly blows; Tho’ large the forest’s monarch throws His army shade, Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows Adown the glade.