"To sing ilk bonny bushy bower, Adorned with many a wild-born flower; Ilk burnie singing through the vale, Where blooming hawthorns scent the gale; And ilka sweet that nature yields, In meadow wild or cultur'd fields; The cultur'd fields where towering strang The sturdy aik his shadows flang; Where lonely Druids wont to rove, The mystic tenants of the grove." He aptly and strikingly interweaves historical and poetical allusions. The following contains a fine contrast, and a striking description of the ruins of Craigmillar Castle, in the vicinity of Edinburgh. "Yes, ARTHUR, round thy velvet chair, Ilk chequered picture blushes fair, And mixed with nature's landscape green, The varied works o' art are seen. Here starts the splendid dome to view, Mang sylvan haunts o' vernal hue; There some auld lanely pile appears, The mouldering wreck o' former years, Whose tottering wa' nae mair can stand Before fell Time's resistless hand; Sic as Craigmillar's Castle gray, That now fa's crumbling to decay, A prey to ilka blast that blaws An' whistles through its royal ha's-- Where mirth ance burst with joyfu' sound And melting music rang around, Ah! there dull gloomy silence reigns, The mossy grass creeps o'er the stanes, And howlets loud at e'enin's fa', Rejoice upon the ruined wa'." Craigmillar Castle naturally suggests the name of the beautiful and unfortunate Mary, Queen of Scots, who once resided within its lordly but now forsaken halls. The poet therefore breaks out into the following animated and pathetic strains, which, it has been said, will bear a comparison with Mr. Burke's celebrated rhapsody on the unfortunate Queen of France. "There was a time when woman's charms Could fire the warlike world of arms, And breed sic wae to auld and young, As Helen wept and Homer sung, But Mary o' ilk stay bereft, Misfortune's luckless child was left; Nae guileless friend to stem her grief, The bursting sigh her whole relief.-- O ye whose brave forefathers bled, And oft the rage of battle led, Wha rushing o'er the crimson field, At Bannockburn made Edward yield; Ye wha still led by glory's flame, Make terror mix wi' Scotia's name-- Where slept your dauntless valor keen When danger met your injured Queen?" His descriptions of the Forth and the neighboring regions, of the Pentland hills, and the scenery of the Esk, are strikingly beautiful.