Part 2

To silence for ever the roar of the cannon And sink in oblivion this era of pain, That in peace we might live in the land of our fathers 'Neath harmony, love, and prosperity's reign.

A FIS'HIN' SPLORE.

Wullie, Sandy, Rab, an' Tam Yae nicht when sittin' owre a dram Agreed when neist the day wad daw Tae tak' their rods an' trudge awa' An' try their skill wi' flee an' worm On bonnie Carron's wimplin' burn.

The mornin' broke sae fresh an' fair, New life was in the caller air; Owre Grey Mere's Tail the sun did peep, Tae wake oor fishers frae their sleep. Ilk yin gat up wi' bizzin' croon; Short time had passed since they lay doon.

They dressed fu' quick, nae time tae loss, An' sune were skelpin' through the moss; Owre dyke an' fence, through sheuch an' glen, Up, up, they spieled tae Enterkin: An' when at last they did get there A view they had ayont compare.

They had nae time the scene tae view, Sae hurried owre the mountain's broo, An' doon the brae they ran pell-mell Tae hae a drink at Katie's Well, "Whaur Black M'Michael's bearded lip Yince fain did dip."

Then doon they ran wi' muckle speed, Tae Nature's charms they paid nae heed, An' didna slack their pace a jot Until they reached the Lucky Pot; Sae awfu' keen an' anxious they Tae see if luck was theirs that day.

Then walin' steps wi' canny care They gaed alang the hill-side bare, Whaur Kelt,, the hound, fell aff his steed When Harkness shot him through the heid; The roarin' pool whaur he fell in Has since been known as Kelty's Linn.

There fore-nent them Stey-Guile stood, Defyin' time an' storms an' flood; They gazed upon its steepest side, Doon whaur 'twas said bold Graham did ride, His pony shod wi' deevils' cloots; 'Twas maybe true. "They had some doots."

Owre Dalveen Hill an' doon the brae Richt cheerily they held their way; An' when they High Dalveen had passed They reached the Carron Burn at last; Then fast their taikle they gat oot, Their minds fair set on killin' troot.

Then Wullie, keen his skill tae test, Got started weel afore the rest; He banged oot yin, syne made it twa; When oot cam' three, lie croose did craw. "Come here, ma callans, gin ye wish, I'll show ye hoo tae catch the fish."

"But pleesures are like poppies spread, Ye seize the floo'er, its bloom is shed;" He thocht he was a fisher rare, But, strange tae say, he gat nae mair; An' then he cried "I'll bet a quid It's been the tail en' o' the tid."

But Rab an' Tam, mair skilfu' they, On pools an' streams their flees did play; They played wi' sic a cunnin' wrist The finny tribe couldnae resist, But lap an' danced at bob an' trail; Some e'en were hookit by the tail.

Doon by Stonebutt an' by the Brig, They landed fishes wee an' big; An' when they reached the Carron Mill, O' fishin' they had got their fill: An' here a signboard took their e'e, A maist uncommon sign tae see:

"Ginger-beer an' lemonade, Here as guid as can be made, An' if ye want some more repast, Dinner, supper, or breakfast;" These lines, my friens, depend upon it, Composed were by Grier the Poet.

The landlord there, a sober chiel, Wad hae nae traffic wi' the deil: O' aqua vitae he had nane; Sair did oor weary fishers grane; An' ere they rested on their hurdies, Hied owre the hill tae Tam o' Murdy's.

Tam o' Murdy's, Durisdeer, Was famed for Mountain Dew an' beer, An' ony ither kin' o' drink, But jist for them wha had the clink: For Tammy, tho' a kin'ly man, Could aye look efter num'er wan.

An' there they sat an' smoked an' sang, An' gill stoups toomed o' liquor strang, Which quickly put them a' at ease, In tellin' stories, maistly lees, O' salmon they had landed oot, An' hoo they lost their biggest troot.

Their pooches toom, nae mair tae spen', Their nonsense sune cam' tae an en', An' forced were they tae tak' the gait, Tho' they were in a muddled state. The moon on them was shinin' clear, When leavin' guid auld Durisdeer.

They wandered on, whiles up, whiles doon, An' heard fu' mony an eerie soon; The fitpath wasna' braid aneuch, They tumelt in the burn an' sheuch; They staggered in amang the dreels, O' turnip, kail, an' tattie fiel's.

An' tho' they had nae wish tae tarry, Their legs refused the drink tae carry: An'' doon on Carron's hichts they sank, An' for a time their min's were blank; Hoo they gat hame, what them befel, Deil yin o' them could ever tell.

MORAL.

When man is on enjoyment bent, O' aftermath he should tak' tent, An' no abuse John Barleycorn, Or life o' pleesure will be shorn.

A natural pot formation in the bare rock in the middle of the burn, about twenty yards down from the foot-path from which, if a fisher, in the morning, out of three stones put one in the lucky pot, his luck was in for that day.

Captain of Dragoons searching for Covenanters amongst the hills.

One of the hunted Covenanters.

Graham of Claverhouse, of whom many marvellous stories have been told.

TROLOSS.