VIGNETTES OF SCOTTISH SPORT.
(By a Peckham Highlander.)
O brawly sklents the break o' day
On far Lochaber's bank and brae,
And briskly bra's the Hielan' burn
Where day by day the Southron kern
Comes busking through the bonnie brake
Wi' rod and creel o' finest make,
And gars the artfu' trouties rise
Wi' a' the newest kinds o' flies,
Nor doots that ere the sun's at rest
He'll catch a basket o' the best.
For what's so sweet to nose o' man
As trouties skirrlin' in the pan
Wi' whiles a nip o' mountain dew
Tae warm the chilly Saxon through,
And hold the balance fair and right
Twixt intellect and appetite?
But a' in vain the Southron throws
Abune each trout's suspectfu' nose
His gnats and coachmen, greys and brouns,
And siclike gear that's sold in touns,
And a' in vain the burn he whups
Frae earliest sunrise till the tups
Wi' mony a wean-compelling "meeeh!"
Announce the punctual close of day.
Then hameward by the well-worn track
Gangs the disgruntled Sassenach,
And, having dined off mountain sheep,
Betakes him moodily to sleep.
And "Ah!" he cries, "would I micht be
A clansman kilted to the knee,
Wi' sporran, plaid and buckled shoe,
And Caledonian whuskers too!
Would I could wake the pibroch's throes
And live on parritch and peas brose
And spurn the ling wi' knotty knees,
The dourest Scot fra Esk tae Tees!
For only such, I'll answer for 't,
Are rightly built for Hielan' sport,
Can stalk Ben Ledi's antlered stag
Frae scaur to scaur and crag tae crag,
Cra'ing like serrpents through the grass
On waumies bound wi' triple brass;
Can find themselves at set o' sun,
Wi' sandwiches and whusky gone,
And twenty miles o' scaur and fell
Fra Miss McOstrich's hotel,
Yet utter no revilin' word
Against the undiminished herd
Of antlered monarchs of the glen
That never crossed their eagle ken:
But a' unfrettit turn and say,
'Hoots, but the sport's been grand the day!'
For none but Scotsmen born and bred,
When ither folk lie snug in bed,
Would face yon cauld and watery pass,
The eerie peat-hag's dark morass,
Where wails the whaup wi' mournful screams,
Tae wade a' day in icy streams
An' flog the burn wi' feckless flies
Though ilka trout declines tae rise,
Then hameward crunch wi' empty creel
Tae sit and hark wi' unquenched zeal
Tae dafties' tales o' lonesome tarns
Cramfu' o' trout as big as barns."
E'en thus the envious Southron girds
Complainin' fate wi' bitter words
For a' the virtues she allots
Unto the hardy race o' Scots.
And when the sun the brae's abune
He taks the train to London toun,
Vowing he ne'er again will turn
Tae Scottish crag or Hielan' burn,
But hire a punt and fish for dace
At Goring or some ither place.
Algol.