d wealth like Vanderbilt
Or some such millionaire,
I'd live in Scotland, don a kilt,
And _pay to prove_ my forbears spilt
Their blood in forays there.

I'd buy a picturesque estate
Beside the ocean's flow,
With knolls of heather at my gate,
And pine-clad hills to dominate,
The ferny dells below.

I'd be a father to the folk
That laboured on the soil,
With old and young I'd crack my joke,
Drink with them in their thirst, and smoke
The pipe that lightens toil.

For hens I'd have a special run,
For ducks a special pool,
My calves should frolic in the sun,
My sheep should be surpassed by none
Whose backs are clothed with wool.

Although I'm not a Walton quite,
Betweenwhiles I should try
To lure the finny tribe to bite
(At the right time, in the right light,)
My simulated fly.

When winter heaped his rattling hail
High on the window sill,
With pipe and wassail, rime and tale,
I'd never miss the nightingale
Or cuckoo on the hill.

Nay, musing by the ingle-lowe
With summer in my brain,
I'd cloth with leaves the frozen bough
And all the ice-bound brooks endow
With tinkling life again.[37]

[37] Berriedale, which moved the American to commemorative song,
is on the Caithness shore, and there the Duke of Portland has
one of his numerous residences. The Duke's seat is high up on
the hills and behind it is a mountain of grim aspect which
serves for a deer-forest. At Berriedale, the road traversed by
the coach is simply appalling: boards marked _Dangerous_
forewarn all wheel-men that risks cannot be taken with impunity.
An honest descent can be easily coped with, but here the road to
the glen is not merely steep, it is as lacking in
straightforwardness as the links of Forth. Once down at the
level of the village, the breeze no longer blows fresh and
chilly, but subsides into a quiet air, grateful with the odour
of flowers. Passengers are requested to walk up the
corresponding hill to a level equal to the height of the road
before the interruption of the terrible Berriedale chasm. When
the ascent is reached, one has a view of unsurpassed splendour.
The wooded Wye, which Wordsworth sang so rapturously and which
he saw with his mind's eye in the dinsome town, has no landscape
to