An interesting opinion from a Scottish memoir:

[1988:] There was no point in going out [poaching pheasants] on a clear frosty night, because then the inevitably rustling and clackling as one approached their roost gave warning, and they would take off into the clear sky. No, there was no point about 'My delight on a shiny night' and whoever wrote that song was certainly no poacher. A good poacher had to know his ground so well that he had no need of a shiny night. The ideal is a dark and stormy night [...]. (Archie Cameron, Bare Feet and Tackety Boots. A Boyhood on Rhum. Luath Press, Barr, p 161)