WILD-FOWL SHOOTING ON THE HIGHLAND LOCHS. 163 



such weather would have at once allured me to the wildest 

 shooting within my reach. 



" When dark December glooms the day, 

 And takes our autumn joys away ; 

 When short and scant the sunbeam throws, 

 Upon the weary waste of snows, 

 A cold and profitless regard, 

 Like patron on a needy bard ; 

 When silvan occupation's done, 

 And o'er the chimney rests the gun, 

 And hang, in idle trophy, near, 

 The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear ; 

 When wiry terrier, rough and grim, 

 And greyhound, with his length of limb, 

 And pointer, now employed no more, 

 Cumber our parlour's narrow floor ; 

 When in his stall the impatient steed 

 Is long condemn'd to rest and feed ; 

 When from our snow-encircled home, 

 Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, 

 Since path is none, save that to bring 

 The needful water from the spring ; 

 When wrinkled news-page, thrice connM o'er, 

 Beguiles the dreary hour no more, 

 And darkling politician, cross'd, 

 Inveighs against the lingering post, 

 And answering housewife sore complains 

 Of carriers' snow-impeded wains ; 

 When such the country cheer, I come, 

 Well pleased, to seek our city home ; 

 For converse, and for books, to change 

 The Forest's melancholy range, 

 And welcome, with renew'd delight, 

 The busy day and social night." 



