The humble Petition of Bruar Water to the noble Duke of Athole

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts,

That thro' my waters play,

If, in their random, wanton spouts,

They near the margin stray;

If, hapless chance! they linger lang,

I'm scorching up so shallow,

They're left the whitening stanes amang,

In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,

As Poet Burns came by,

That to a Bard I should be seen

Wi' half my channel dry:

A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Even as I was he shor'd me;

But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,

In twisting strength I rin;

There, high my boiling torrent smokes,

Wild-roaring o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well

As Nature gave them me,

I am, altho' I say't mysel,

Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my nobie master please

To grant my highest wishes,

He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,

And bonie spreading bushes.

Delighted doubly, then, my Lord,

You'll wander on my banks,

And listen monie a grateful bird

Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,

Shall to the skies aspire;

The gowdspink, Music's gayest child,

Shall sweetly join the choir:

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,

The mavis mild and mellow;

The robin pensive Autumn cheer,

In all her locks of yellow:

This too, a covert shall ensure,

To shield them from the storm;

And coward maukin sleep secure,

Low in her grassy form:

Here shall the shepherd make his seat

To weave his crown of flow'rs;

Or find a sheltering safe retreat,

From prone-descending show'rs.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,

Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising worlds with all their wealth

As empty, idle care:

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms

The hour of heav'n to grace,

And birks extend their fragrant arms,

To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,

Some musing bard may stray,

And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,

And misty mountain, grey;

Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,

Mild-chequering thro' the trees,

Rave to my darkly dashing stream,

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,

My lowly banks o'erspread,

And view, deep-bending in the pool,

Their shadows' wat'ry bed!

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest

My craggy cliffs adorn;

And, for the little songster's nest,

The close embow'ring thorn.

So may Old Scotia's darling hope,

Your little angel band,

Spring like their fathers, up to prop

Their honour'd native land!

So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,

To social-flowing glasses

The grace be—"Athole's honest men,

And Athole's bonie lasses!"