Streams that glide in orient plains,

Never bound by Winter's chains;

Glowing here on golden sands,

There immix'd with foulest stains

From Tyranny's empurpled hands;

These, their richly gleaming waves,

I leave to tyrants and their slaves;

Give me the stream that sweetly laves

The banks by Castle Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gray,

Shading from the burning ray

Hapless wretches sold to toil;

Or the ruthless native's way,

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:

Woods that ever verdant wave,

I leave the tyrant and the slave;

Give me the groves that lofty brave

The storms by Castle Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,

Nature reigns and rules the whole;

In that sober pensive mood,

Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood:

Life's poor day I'll musing rave

And find at night a sheltering cave,

Where waters flow and wild woods wave,

By bonie Castle Gordon.