I pass over the history of my early days. Were I to enter upon them, I should write a volume, and still have volumes to write; for I was born in a mountain glen, beside a mountain stream--my father being a shepherd--and where I grew insensibly into an affectionate friendship for everything around me; for my dear and indulgent mother; for my douce and sagacious father; for our two dogs, Help and Watch; for the old grey cat; for all manner of wooden trenchers, spoons, and ladles; for the stream that winded past the byre-end; for every fin that shoot across the pool; for the sheep bleating upon the brae and glen; for the glen and brae themselves; for the mist, the clouds, the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars--which all seemed made for and subservient to us, and us alone. I pass over the killing of my first trout, with a crooked pin, my noviciate in fishing, and my amazing progress and success in after years; but I cannot pass over a song, which, in these my days of youthful glee, I laboured into something like the tune, I think, of "Blue Bonnets over the Border:"-- "Oh, would you wish to gang to the fishing, lad-- Ye maun get up in the morning sae early, Wi' step like the roe-deer, and blythe heart and glad, And tackle in order, to start to it fairly. Away! while the sleepers around you are dreaming, Away! while the grey eye of morning is beaming, Ere the mist leaves the mountain, The wild duck the fountain, Or the pure light of day o'er the world is streaming. "Gang down by the glen where the burnie rows gently, When the light western breeze the stream ripples over; By the deep eddied pools, where, silent and tently, The trout keep his watch, 'neath the willowed bank's cover And there, with the fly, where the water winds slowly, Neatly and clean throw it out just below you; Watch for him steadily, Strike at him readily. And run him till, faint, on the sward he lies lowly. With the well-seasoned bait in the streams that are fleetest, Fish the large yellow fellows, two pounders or more; You are sure of a tune to the fisher's ear sweetest, For the sound of the pirn is all music before. He comes with a boil, like a deep caldron gasping, So sudden and keenly the tempting bait grasping-- Hark to him dashing! See to him splashing! Now he pants on the green, and your hand cannot clasp him."