A Fis’hin’ Splore.
Wullie, Sandy, Rab, an’ Tam
Yae nicht when sittin’ owre a dram
Agreed when neist the day wad daw
Tae tak’ their rods an’ trudge awa’
An’ try their skill wi’ flee an’ worm
On bonnie Carron’s wimplin’ burn.
The mornin’ broke sae fresh an’ fair,
New life was in the caller air;
Owre Grey Mere’s Tail the sun did peep,
Tae wake oor fishers frae their sleep.
Ilk yin gat up wi’ bizzin’ croon;
Short time had passed since they lay doon.
They dressed fu’ quick, nae time tae loss,
An’ sune were skelpin’ through the moss;
Owre dyke an’ fence, through sheuch an’ glen,
Up, up, they spieled tae Enterkin:
An’ when at last they did get there
A view they had ayont compare.
They had nae time the scene tae view,
Sae hurried owre the mountain’s broo,
An’ doon the brae they ran pell-mell
Tae hae a drink at Katie’s Well,
“Whaur Black M’Michael’s bearded lip
Yince fain did dip.”
Then doon they ran wi’ muckle speed,
Tae Nature’s charms they paid nae heed,
An’ didna slack their pace a jot
Until they reached the Lucky Pot1;
Sae awfu’ keen an’ anxious they
Tae see if luck was theirs that day.
Then walin’ steps wi’ canny care
They gaed alang the hill-side bare,
Whaur Kelt,2, the hound, fell aff his steed
When Harkness3 shot him through the heid;
The roarin’ pool whaur he fell in
Has since been known as Kelty’s Linn.
There fore-nent them Stey-Guile stood,
Defyin’ time an’ storms an’ flood;
They gazed upon its steepest side,
Doon whaur ’twas said bold Graham4 did ride,
His pony shod wi’ deevils’ cloots;
’Twas maybe true. “They had some doots.”
Owre Dalveen Hill an’ doon the brae
Richt cheerily they held their way;
An’ when they High Dalveen had passed
They reached the Carron Burn at last;
Then fast their taikle they gat oot,
Their minds fair set on killin’ troot.
Then Wullie, keen his skill tae test,
Got started weel afore the rest;
He banged oot yin, syne made it twa;
When oot cam’ three, lie croose did craw.
“Come here, ma callans, gin ye wish,
I’ll show ye hoo tae catch the fish.”
“But pleesures are like poppies spread,
Ye seize the floo’er, its bloom is shed;”
He thocht he was a fisher rare,
But, strange tae say, he gat nae mair;
An’ then he cried “I’ll bet a quid
It’s been the tail en’ o’ the tid.”
But Rab an’ Tam, mair skilfu’ they,
On pools an’ streams their flees did play;
They played wi’ sic a cunnin’ wrist
The finny tribe couldnae resist,
But lap an’ danced at bob an’ trail;
Some e’en were hookit by the tail.
Doon by Stonebutt an’ by the Brig,
They landed fishes wee an’ big;
An’ when they reached the Carron Mill,
O’ fishin’ they had got their fill:
An’ here a signboard took their e’e,
A maist uncommon sign tae see:
“Ginger-beer an’ lemonade,
Here as guid as can be made,
An’ if ye want some more repast,
Dinner, supper, or breakfast;”
These lines, my friens, depend upon it,
Composed were by Grier the Poet.
The landlord there, a sober chiel,
Wad hae nae traffic wi’ the deil:
O’ aqua vitae he had nane;
Sair did oor weary fishers grane;
An’ ere they rested on their hurdies,
Hied owre the hill tae Tam o’ Murdy’s.
Tam o’ Murdy’s, Durisdeer,
Was famed for Mountain Dew an’ beer,
An’ ony ither kin’ o’ drink,
But jist for them wha had the clink:
For Tammy, tho’ a kin’ly man,
Could aye look efter num’er wan.
An’ there they sat an’ smoked an’ sang,
An’ gill stoups toomed o’ liquor strang,
Which quickly put them a’ at ease,
In tellin’ stories, maistly lees,
O’ salmon they had landed oot,
An’ hoo they lost their biggest troot.
Their pooches toom, nae mair tae spen’,
Their nonsense sune cam’ tae an en’,
An’ forced were they tae tak’ the gait,
Tho’ they were in a muddled state.
The moon on them was shinin’ clear,
When leavin’ guid auld Durisdeer.
They wandered on, whiles up, whiles doon,
An’ heard fu’ mony an eerie soon;
The fitpath wasna’ braid aneuch,
They tumelt in the burn an’ sheuch;
They staggered in amang the dreels,
O’ turnip, kail, an’ tattie fiel’s.
An’ tho’ they had nae wish tae tarry,
Their legs refused the drink tae carry:
An’’ doon on Carron’s hichts they sank,
An’ for a time their min’s were blank;
Hoo they gat hame, what them befel,
Deil yin o’ them could ever tell.
MORAL.
When man is on enjoyment bent,
O’ aftermath he should tak’ tent,
An’ no abuse John Barleycorn,
Or life o’ pleesure will be shorn.
Song or Recitation. Tune: “Tinker’s Waddin’.”
In August, when the heather blooms,
An’ grouse are fairly on the wing,
The scented breeze frae hill an’ moor,
Tae hunters health an’ pleesure bring.
Then hunters meet at Auld Troloss,
As they hae dune for mony a year:
Tam Johnston ready taks the names
O’ beaters there frae far an’ near.
The Laird aye greets them wi’ a smile,
An’ shakes auld servants by the han’;
Nae purse-prood autocrat is he,
But jist a kindly gentleman.
Aye weel esteemed are men like him,
An’ loyal service they comman’;
It isna siller, pomp, or power,
But honest worth that maks the man.
The guns gae first; each finds his butt;
Then beaters bauldly briest the brae;
Lang miles atween them an’ their hames—
Their herts are licht, sae what care they?
They drive the Hoose, they drive the drain,
An’ next in order comes the mine;
Success does a’ their efforts croon,
When Tammas Johnston marks the line.
An’ thus the merry hunt goes on,
Drive after drive they run them in;
An’ when they get back tae the Hoose,
They ken their heavy darg is dune.
They there get coffee in their turn,
Some hae milk an’ some hae tea,
Wi’ routh o’ breed weel spread wi’ jam,
An’ a bicker o’ the barley bree.
A few choice spirits meet at nicht
Tae spen’ a happy social ‘oor,
When ilka yin is blyth an’ bricht,
An’ meenits pass like fleein’ stour.
The gentry a’ maun share the fun,
Nae cless distinction dae they show;
Tae Gracie’s fiddle weel in tune
They trip the “licht fantastic toe.”
Carmichael is a canty chiel,
Tae sing a sang he is’na sweir—
The “Tinkers’ Waddin’,” “Spellin’ o’t,”
An’ “Bonnie Lass o’ Durisdeer.”
Then Laidlaw sings aboot the hills,
Up whaur the Wanlock waters rowe,
An’ “True till death,” “The Eastern Star,”
An’ “Jessie on the Quarry Knowe.”
Miss Vickers an’ Miss Jonson, tae,
The auld-time sangs sae sweetly sing,
Accompanied by the auld banjo,
The fiddle an’ the mandolin.
The auld wife in the ingle neuk
Raises her voice in cheerfu’ key,
An’ nicely sings “Woods o’ Duirmore,”
An’ “The Bonnie Lad that comes tae me.”
Coachman Fraser, stalwart wight,
Does neist a humorous piece recite,
Hoo Tibbie lood an’ lang did growl
When her puir bit lassie brak the bowl.
Then Lauder, tho’ he canna sing.
Does fairly dance the Heelan’ Fling,
An’ Hornpipes, tae; wi’ heavy wear,
His feet like hammers strike the flair.
Gracie gies them o’ his best
Till voice an’ airms are needin’ rest;
Hoo he does sing, hoo he does play,
It wadna dae for me tae say.
The ‘oor is gane; some maun gang hame;
They canna’ stay the han’ o’ time.
They pairt tae meet some ither nicht,
For the happy days o’ Auld Langsyne.
Chorus after every 2nd verse.
Durum dook an’ doo an’ dae,
Durum dook an’ derry O.
Durum dook an’ doo an’ dae,
Hurrah for the hunt sae merry O.
Notes
1 A natural pot formation in the bare rock in the middle of the burn, about twenty yards down from the foot-path from which, if a fisher, in the morning, out of three stones put one in the lucky pot, his luck was in for that day.
2 Captain of Dragoons searching for Covenanters amongst the hills.
3 One of the hunted Covenanters.
4 Graham of Claverhouse, of whom many marvellous stories have been told.