THE TWEED. 47 



song and its especial poet. And the race that inhabits 

 4fthe land is worthy to inherit such a past. Still, 

 Tweed (to borrow a verse from the Lochlomond 

 Leven, to which Smollet's eulogium is now barely 

 applicable) 



" Still on thy banks so gaily green, 

 May numerous herds and flocks be seen, 

 And lasses chaunting o'er the pail, 

 And shepherds piping in the dale, 

 And ancient faith that knows no guile, 

 And Industry embrowned with toil, 

 And hearts resolved and hands prepared, 

 The blessings they enjoy to guard ! " 



But, reverentially as the Tweed is esteemed by the 

 patriot and the poet, what shall we say of the loving 

 regard in which it is held by. the angler ? Dweller 

 in the cities, what are your thoughts of the Tweed as 

 you bend over your desk, the fishing-rod at peace in a 

 safe corner of your room at home the creel hanging 

 empty and idle in the back kitchen ? The west wind 

 is " blawin' saft amang the leafy trees; " the day before 

 yesterday the surcharged clouds which it had brought 

 from the Atlantic saturated the hills and dales of the 

 South ; imagination pictures to you innumerable fa- 

 vourite spots where the brown water is now dimpled 

 by yellow-finned giants : who shall measure your long- 

 ings ? There are thoughts that lie too deep for ink. 

 So, to avoid metaphysics, let us take some facts from 

 Mr. Stoddart, whom we will back against any man in 

 Roxburghshire to give his facts (when he likes) a me- 

 taphysical hue : " The whole " (of the Tweed) he 

 says, " is planned according to an angler's taste, every 

 inch of water accessible to the wader, without danger 



