The Banks of the Esk

While Tweed's fam'd stream in numbers rolls along,
And Tay's meanders sweetly glide in song;
Thy windings Esk, in silence should not flow,
If the coy Nine would numbers fit bestow;
Fain would my humble muse thy beauties sing,
Would sing thy banks, thy groves, and silver spring;
Thy nymphs and swains, whose social converse gay
Beguil'd the winter's night, the summer's day.
Here hath kind heaven a chosen agent plac'd,
Noble Buccleugh, with every virtue grac'd,
Who, on exalted rank, a lustre throws
Brighter, than or from wealth or title flows.
Sorrow from thee full oft relief hath found,
While aid and comfort wide are spread around.
Thy dome, well known to all the wand'ring poor,
Who dread not being driven from thy door.
Approving angels on thy steps attend,
And round thy couch their sheltering wings extend,
Drawn from their skies by prayers of the distrest,
Whose griefs by thee have often been redrest.
Hail happiest spot of Caledonia's coast!
Is not fair Stuart* "thine, and nature's boast?"
And doth not lovely Scott+ thy bowers grace
Whose gentle virtues with delight we trace?
How oft, sweet friend, would we together stray,
Where Pinkie's milky turrets mark the way;
Or wander by the margin of the stream,
Through scenes which well might form Elysian dream,
While still by thee was fram'd each varying theme.

(Extract)