Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
     Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
     Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
     I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.

     How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
     Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;
     There daily I wander as noon rises high,
     My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.

     How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
     Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
     There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea,
     The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

     Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
     And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
     How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
     As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

     Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
     Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
     My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
     Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Address To The Shade Of Thomson

On Crowning His Bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with a Wreath of Bays.

     While virgin Spring by Eden’s flood,
     Unfolds her tender mantle green,
     Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
     Or tunes Eolian strains between.

     While Summer, with a matron grace,
     Retreats to Dryburgh’s cooling shade,
     Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
     The progress of the spiky blade.

     While Autumn, benefactor kind,
     By Tweed erects his aged head,
     And sees, with self-approving mind,
     Each creature on his bounty fed.

     While maniac Winter rages o’er
     The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
     Rousing the turbid torrent’s roar,
     Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows.

     So long, sweet Poet of the year! 
     Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
     While Scotia, with exulting tear,
     Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

Nithsdale’s Welcome Hame

     The noble Maxwells and their powers
     Are coming o’er the border,
     And they’ll gae big Terreagles’ towers
     And set them a’ in order. 
     And they declare Terreagles fair,
     For their abode they choose it;
     There’s no a heart in a’ the land
     But’s lighter at the news o’t.

Tho’ stars in skies may disappear, And angry tempests gather; The happy hour may soon be near That brings us pleasant weather:  The weary night o’ care and grief May hae a joyfu’ morrow; so dawning day has brought relief, Fareweel our night o’ sorrow.

Frae The Friends And Land I Love