Fishing Song.
[W. A. Foster, formerly of Coldstream, now of Glasgow. Tune, "Ye mariners of England."—Here first printed.]
Ye fishermen of Scotland,
Who love the stream and pool,
Whose haunts are by the river side,
Among the shadows cool:
Your tackle mount, my gallant hearts,
With minnow, fly, or roe,
It is best from the west,
While the gentle breezes blow.
Old Scotland holds the cataract
Among her mountains steep,
With streaming rills, and sleepy pools,
Where trout and salmon leap.
Then mount the line, my gallant hearts,
The hills are clear of snow;
Fling bait in the spate,
While the gentle breezes blow.
The spirit of old anglers gone
Will rise with every cast,
And cheer us 'neath the summer sun
Or winter's angry blast.
Where old John Foster fish'd so well,
To Birgham Dub, we'll go,
And try with the fly,
While the gentle breezes blow.
The fame of Carham's angling stream
Will only higher rise,
While Scott can wield a salmon rod,
Or Carse can dress such flies.
Tweed's been their glory, they her pride,
Then let her waters flow
To the fame of their name,
While the gentle breezes blow.