The flies to suit it are, small dark hare's ears, small black hackles, red and black ants, browns, small duns, and hare's ear and yellow, the blue blow, the brown midge, and in the spring, the March brown, and stone fly, for large fish.
There is a very nice stream running out of "Loch Lomond" into the river Clyde, at the town of Dumbarton, in which there are sea-trout in the spring and autumn. They take very small dun flies, silver greys and black midges, the dark hare's ear, and red hackle.
The picturesque Loch Lomond affords good trout fishing along its gravelly shores, and near the islands. There are two flies that kill well in it, which are as follows: Black body and hackle, tip of silver, wings of the short bronze feathers of the back of the peacock. No. 6 hook, or fff. The other one is, red body, red hackle, and a wing like the first, both tailed with two fibres of the feather of the wings. I received these two flies from a gentleman, one time when I was at Glasgow, who confirmed them as "out-and-outers."
There are fish called Pullen, very numerous in Loch Lomond, the shape and size of herrings, which are also numerous in Loch Neagh, in the north of Ireland. They sell in Belfast as "fresh water herrings."
When a young man, I denominated Belfast my favorite home, among my dear friends of the rod and gun. Newry, in the County of Down, was the home of my ancestors. My first crying was behind "Cronebaun" hills, in the County of Wicklow, near the "Ovoca," famed for "sweetness" and poetic muse of Erin's humble bard, Tom Moore.
Looking over the Wicklow sands, where many a poor fisherman foundered, in the village[G] of "Red Cross," was the first sight my "mama" got of me; like a cloistered nun, I was covered in a veil, which, they say, would always keep me from the "briny depths." Many "crosses" have I had since January 14th, 1814, the "hard winter" which corresponds with that of last year. Mature years of experience make wise men. Forty and one summers having rolled over my head, the dishevelled ringlets of which are now sprinkled with "honorable grey"—bashful man, hide your blushes—my ruddy tint flies when I tell you, my dear anglers, that my sincere desire is to love every good man, as God has taught me. There is no one I despise, disposed at all times to revere superiors, condescend to those who perchance may be my inferiors, continent to kind friends, and forgiving to enemies, if any. Unless we profit by charity, all other profit seems void.
FOOTNOTE:
[G] The mansion is roofless, says "Rory O'More."