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Oh! Laxford, dear! thy barren hills Fond mem'ry still must love;To thee my wand'ring fancy turns, Where'er my footsteps rove.
Oh! scenes by happy childhood bless'd, When grief was all unknown—But dearer now, and treasur'd more, Your joys for ever flown.
'Twas there, oh, Scott! thy presence cheer'd Thine hospitable hall;'Twas there thou gav'st with friendly smile A welcome unto all.
Beneath thy roof each wand'rer found A refuge from the storm;And frequent hast thou shelter'd there The orphan's trembling form.
Now in the cold and silent tomb Thy mould'ring dust is laid,And yet no marble stone is rear'd To point thy lowly bed.
But, oh! within the grateful breast Thy mem'ry long shall dwell;Nor ask of art its feeble aid, Thy honour'd name to tell.
