Much injur’d, Scotia! was thy genuine worth,
When late the surly Rambler wandered forth
In brown surtout, with ragged staff,
Enough to make a savage laugh!
And sent the faithless legend from his hand,
That Want and Famine scour’d thy bladeless land,
That with thee Nature wore a wrinkled face,
That not a leaf e’er shed its sylvan grace,
But, harden’d by their northern wind,
Rude, deceitful, and unkind,
Thy half-cloth’d sons their oaten cake denied,
Victims at once of penury and pride.
Happy for thee! a lib’ral Briton here,
Gentle yet shrewd, tho’ learned not severe.
Fairly thy merit dares impart,
Asserts thy hospitable heart,
Proves that luxuriance smiles upon thy plains,
And wit and valour grace thy hardy swains.