Dear Scotia! to thy barren bounds,
A wandering son returns:
Though bleak thy hills, and keen thy blast,
For thee his bosom burns.
To clearer skies and warmer climes
The pilgrim needs must roam;
He travelled far to please his eyes,
But left his heart at home.
Returned at last, his eager steps
To Glota's vale he bends;
Sweet vale! the scene of youthful sports,
The haunt of early friends:
Thy groves and streams, thy hills and dales,
A southern sun despise,
Illumed and gladdened by the rays
That beam from Laura's eyes.
Visions of bliss, and dreams of love!
He bade you all adieu;
Wild were his visions—wild his hopes,
But Laura proves them true.