AND ANGLING SONGS. 297 



III. 



There's no a hole aboon the Crook, 



Nor stane nor gurly swirl aneath, 

 Nor drumlie rill, nor faery brook 



That daunders through the flow'ry heath, 

 But ye may fin' a kittle troot, 



A' gleamin' ower wi' starn and bead ; 

 An' mony a sawmont sooms aboot 



Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed. 



IV. 



Frae Holylee to Clovenford, 



A chancier bit ye canna ha'e ; 

 Sae gin ye tak' an angler's word, 



Ye '11 through the whuns an' ower the brae, 

 An' work awa wi' cunnin' hand 



Yer birzy heckles, black and reid ; 

 The saft sough o' a slender wand 



Is meetest music for the Tweed ! 



O the Tweed ! the bonnie Tweed ! 



O' rivers it's the best ; 

 Angle here, or angle there, 

 Troots are sooming everywhere, 



Angle east or west. 



LOCHMABEN FIRST VISIT. 



MY friend W. and I having accepted a kind invitation to 

 spend a day or two with the late Mr. Macdonald of Rammer- 

 scales, and, under his guidance, to visit the Lochmaben lochs, 



