Address to the Shade of Thomson, on crowning his Bust at Ednam

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.