Explore "The Twelfth" by Harry Graham on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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!