‘ THE TWELFTH’

If you're waking, call me early,

Call me early, Rob MacDougall,

When the skies are pale and pearly

And the air is keen and chill;

And we'll break our fast together,

In a fashion somewhat frugal,

And be off across the heather

To‘ the hill.’

Soon will coveys come a-flitting,

Over purple slopes and ridges,

To the butts where we are sitting

With our loaders close behind.

Though the mist obscure our vision,

And our necks are stung by midges,

And we shoot without precision,

Never mind!

If the birds fly fast and freely

O'er the lair where we are lying

With the cartridges that Eley

So obligingly supplies,

When the drive is duly ended

We can count the dead and dying

We have rent ( or is it‘ rended’? )

From the skies!

As we stimulate the labours

Of retrievers bent on finding

Stricken birds our next-door neighbours

Will indubitably claim,

We declare to one another

( Though we scarcely need reminding )

That a grouse beats any other

Kind of game,

And that, given sport and weather,

There is nothing like the thrill

Of a day among the heather

On the hill!