AN ANGLER'S RAMBLES 



XII. 



In shadow of those summits grey, 

 Where hunted the old lords of Reay, 



Chasing the antlers royal 

 From sunny Erriboll across 

 With wild halloo through quiv'ring moss 



To the broad base of Loyal. 



XIII. 



In that green valley on whose breast 

 Sings Naver with a lover's zest, 



All through the tide of summer, 

 Filling the solitude with life, 

 And soothing the harsh ear of strife 



With its bewitching glamour. 



XIV. 



On Hallowdale, whose moorland blood 

 Grows pale, invaded by the flood 



Which, when the south winds rally, 

 From huddled storms and sleeping snows 

 The garner'd thrifts of winter flows 



Resistless down the valley. 



xv. 



The angler Q n Thurso, blended with whose name 



passeth to 



and h "rsueth ^ VG ^ eats ^ s ^'^ approaching fame 

 his calling And to the ang i er dearer 



Talk'd over at the evening board, 

 The wand a rival to the sword, 

 Above the smoking cheerer 



