The poem
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.