When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,
And July’s eve, with balmy breath,
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath;
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourished, broad, Blackandro’s oak,
The aged Harper’s soul awoke!
Mackenzie, spectacled as he was, saw the first sitting hare, gave the word to slip the greyhounds, and spurred after them like a boy.
‘Coursing on such a mountain is not like the same sport over a bit of fine English pasture.
. . . . . . . . .