o ride or go to the said places, sometimes wading up to
their middles through bournes and rivers: and then: they being come to
the place, do lie down on the ground, till those foresaid scouts which
are called the Tinchel, do bring down the deer: but as the proverb says
of a bad cook, so these Tinchel-men do lick their own fingers; for
besides their bows and arrows, which they carry with them, we can hear
now and then a harquebuss or a musket go off, which they do seldom
discharge in vain: Then after we had stayed there three hours or
thereabouts, we might perceive the deer appear on the hills round about
us, (their heads making a show like a wood) which being followed close
by the Tinchel, are chased down into the valley where we lay; then all
the valley on each side being waylaid with a hundred couple of strong
Irish greyhounds, they are let loose as the occasion serves upon the
herd of deer, so that with dogs, guns, arrows, dirks, and daggers, in
the space of two hours, fourscore fat deer were slain, which after are
disposed of some one way, and some another, twenty and thirty miles, and
more than enough left for us to make merry withal at our rendezvous. I
liked the sport so well, that I made these two sonnets following.

Why should I waste invention to indite,
_Ovidian_ fictions, or Olympian games?
My misty Muse enlightened with more light,
To a more noble pitch her aim she frames.
I must relate to my great Master JAMES,
The Caledonian annual peaceful war;
How noble minds do eternize their fames,
By martial meeting in the Brae of _Mar_:
How thousand gallant spirits came near and far,
With swords and targets, arrows, bows, and guns,
That all the troop to men of judgment, are
The God of Wars great never conquered sons,
The sport is manly, yet none bleed but beasts,
And last the victor on the vanquished feasts.
If sport like this can on the mountains be,
Where _Phoebus_ flames can never melt the snow;
Then let who list delight in vales below,
Sky-kissing mountains pleasure are for me:
What braver object can man's eyesight see,
Than noble, worshipful, and worthy wights,
As if they were prepared for sundry fights,
Yet all in sweet society agree?
Through heather, moss, 'mongst frogs, and bogs, and fogs,
'Mongst craggy cliffs, and thunder-battered hills,
Hares, hinds, bucks, roes, are chased by men and dogs,
Where two hours hunting foursco