1 With No Poetic Ardour Fired, I Press The Bed Where Wilmot Lay; That Here He Loved, Or Here Expired, Begets No Numbers, Grave Or Gay. 2 Beneath Thy Roof, Argyll, Are Bred Such Thoughts As Prompt The Brave To Lie Stretch'D Out In Honour'S Nobler Bed, Beneath A Nobler Roof--The Sky. 3 Such Flames As High In Patriots Burn, Yet Stoop To Bless A Child Or Wife; And Such As Wicked Kings May Mourn, When Freedom Is More Dear Than Life.