Scotland.
[Thomas Smibert.]
The hills of my country are mantled with snow,
Yet, oh! I but love them the more;
More noble they seem in the sun's setting glow,
Than all that the vales of the Southron can show,
When gay with the summer's whole store.
Tho' brighter the landscape, and blander the air,
In climes that look straight to the sun,
The dearest enjoyments of home are not there,
The chat and the laugh by the hearth's cheering glare,
When day and its labours are done.
And thus, like the snow-cover'd hills of their land,
Its sons may seem rugged and rude,
Yet gentler in heart is each man of the band,
More kindly in feeling, more open in hand,
Than all whom the tropics include.