THE HIGHLANDS. 233 



When, gun in hand, we strove the grouse to kill 



In correis wild, on many a heath-clad hill. 



Steady stands Flora up then the covey flies, 



And quick on the ground the " brown bird " fluttering 



lies. 



Now, rod in hand, by river's bank we stray, 

 Just ere the shades of night overtake the day ; 

 With cunning hook and small deceptive fly, 

 For speckled trout in likely pools we try ; 

 With practised hand we ply the rod and reel, 

 Homewards returning with a well-filled creel. 



