Angling Sketches

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Longmans, Green, 1891 - Fishing - 176 pages
 

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Page 129 - So feeble trill'd the streamlet through: Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen Through bush and brier, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with doubled speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed.
Page 139 - THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore, Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.
Page 35 - ... and to fish the waters haunted by old legends, musical with old songs. . . . Memory . . . brings vividly back the golden summer evenings by Tweedside, when trout began to plash in the stillness — brings back the long, lounging, solitary days beneath the woods of Ashiesteil — -days so lovely that they sometimes in the end begat a superstitious eeriness. One seemed forsaken in an enchanted world ; one might see the two white fairy deer flit by, bringing to us, as to Thomas the Rhymer, the tidings...
Page 54 - ... recruits from the highlands — an unpopular mode of acquiring wealth ; and that, amongst other base measures for this purpose, he had gone so far as to leave a purse upon the road, and to threaten the man who had picked it up with an indictment for robbery, if he did not...
Page 127 - Tweed! An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn That steals into its valley fair — The streamlets that at ilka turn Sae saftly meet an' mingle there. The lanesome Tala and the Lyne, An' Manor wi' its mountain rills, An' Etterick, whose waters twine Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills; An Gala, too, an' Teviot bright, An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed : Their kindred valleys a' unite Amang the braes o
Page 97 - Through slaty hills, whose sides are shagged with thorn, Where springs, in scattered tufts, the dark-green corn, Towers wood-girt Harden, far above the vale, And clouds of ravens o'er the turrets sail.
Page 18 - It was worth while to be a boy then in the south of Scotland, and to fish the waters haunted by old legends, musical with old songs. . . . Memory . . . brings vividly back the golden summer evenings by Tweedside, when trout began to plash in the stillness — brings back the long, lounging, solitary days beneath the woods of Ashiesteil — days so lovely that they sometimes in the end begat a superstitious eeriness.

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