CHAPTER IT, 



GROUSE SHOOTING. 



COME where the heather bell, 



Child of the highland dell, 

 Breathes its coy fragrance o'er moorland and lea ; 



Gaily the fountain sheen 



Leaps from the mountain green : 

 Come to our highland home, blithesome and free ! 



See, through the gloaming, 



The young mom is coming, 

 Like a bridal veil round her the silver mist curled : 



Deep as the ruby's rays, 



Bright as the sapphire's blaze, 

 The banner of day in the east is unfurled. 



The red grouse is scattering 



Dews from his golden wing, 

 Gemmed with the radiance that heralds the day : 



Peace in our highland vales, 



Health in our mountain gales ; 

 Who would not hie to the moorlands away ? 



Far from the haunts of man, 



Mark the grey ptarmigan, 

 Seek the lone moorcock, the pride of our dells ; 



Birds of the wilderness, 



Here is their resting-place, 

 'Mid the brown heath where the mountain roe dwells. 



