Oh! what is in this flaunting town
That pleasure can impart,
When native hills and native glens
Are imaged on the heart,
And fancy hears the ceaseless roar
Of cataracts sublime,
Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er
The awful works of time?
What, what is all the city din?
What all the bustling crowd
That throngs these ways from morn to night
Array'd in trappings proud?
While fancy's eye still sees the scenes
Around my mountain home,
Oh! what 's to me yon turret high.
And what yon splendid dome?
Ah! what except a mockery vain
Of nature free as fair,
That dazzles rather than delights
The eye that meets its glare?
Then bear me to the heathy hills
Where I so loved to stray,
There let me rove with footsteps free
And sing the rural lay.