On Captain Forrester's Travelling to the Highlands of Scotland in Winter, Anno 1727. Incog

O'er Caledonia's ruder Alps, While Forrester pursu'd his way, The mountains veil'd their rugged scalps, And wrapt in snow and wonder lay! Each sylvan god, each rural power, Peep'd out to see the raree-show; And all confess'd, that, till that hour, They ne'er had seen so bright a beau. Nay yet, and more I dare advance, The story true, as aught in print, All nature round, in complaisance, And imitation, took the hint. The fields that whilome only bore Wild heath, or clad at best with oats, Despis'd these humble weeds, and wore Rich spangled doublets, and lac'd coats. The hills were perriwigg'd with snow; Pig-tails of ice hung on each tree; The winds turn'd powder-puffs; and, lo, On every shrub a sharp toupee! With silver clocks the river gods Appear'd; and some will take their oath, Or lay at least a thousand odds, The clouds saliving spit white froth. The youth abash'd thus to survey So rude a scene himself outdo, His sprightly genius to display, Resolv'd on something odd and new: All things he found were grown genteel, Which made him deem it a-propo, To be alone in dishabile, A Forrester, and not a beau.