The Pennyles Pilgrimage/Sonnet 2

by John Taylor (1578-1653)

F sport like this can on the mountains be,
Where Phœbus 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 fourscore fat deer kills.
Lowland, your sports are low as is your seat,
The Highland games and minds, are high and great.