 | Fishing gossip |  |
144
HEY FOR COQUET!
Awa' frae the smoke an' the smother!
Awa' frae the crush o' the thrang!
Awa' frae the labour an' pother,
That hae fettered our freedom sae lang!
For the May's i' fu' bloom i' the hedges,
An' the laverock's aloft i' the blue,
An' the south-wind sings low i' the sedges,
By haughs that are silvery wi' dew.
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle!
Up, gad an' gaff, an' awa'!
Cry—Hurrah! for the canny “red heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
Awa' frae the crush o' the thrang!
Awa' frae the labour an' pother,
That hae fettered our freedom sae lang!
For the May's i' fu' bloom i' the hedges,
An' the laverock's aloft i' the blue,
An' the south-wind sings low i' the sedges,
By haughs that are silvery wi' dew.
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle!
Up, gad an' gaff, an' awa'!
Cry—Hurrah! for the canny “red heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
Off, off to the bonnie brown Norland!—
It haunts me for aye i' my dreams—
To torrent, an' mountain, an' muirland,
An' to Coquet, the queen o' the streams!
To Coquet, the beautifu' river,
Beloved by the bards that sae lang
Upheld her the foremost for ever,
An' hallowed her banks wi' their sang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
It haunts me for aye i' my dreams—
To torrent, an' mountain, an' muirland,
An' to Coquet, the queen o' the streams!
To Coquet, the beautifu' river,
Beloved by the bards that sae lang
Upheld her the foremost for ever,
An' hallowed her banks wi' their sang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
145
O Sharperton streams, we are comin'!
O Halystane, greet us wi' glee!
O Rothbury, deep i' the gloamin'
We'll bring our first creelfu' to thee!
An' Alwinton, Harbottle, Hepple,—
If the great trout, the glorious an' strang,
Still sport i' your current's quick ripple,
We'll measure their inches ere lang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
O Halystane, greet us wi' glee!
O Rothbury, deep i' the gloamin'
We'll bring our first creelfu' to thee!
An' Alwinton, Harbottle, Hepple,—
If the great trout, the glorious an' strang,
Still sport i' your current's quick ripple,
We'll measure their inches ere lang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
From Blind-burn, 'midst crag an' hill-hollow,
To Warkworth, anear the salt main,
Each turn o' fair Coquet we'll follow,
Each haunt o' our childhood regain!
At Thropton we winna dissemble
Fu' hearts, nor at Harbottle-hold,—
An' at Weldon, wi' voices a-tremble,
We'll pledge The Great Fishers o' auld!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
To Warkworth, anear the salt main,
Each turn o' fair Coquet we'll follow,
Each haunt o' our childhood regain!
At Thropton we winna dissemble
Fu' hearts, nor at Harbottle-hold,—
An' at Weldon, wi' voices a-tremble,
We'll pledge The Great Fishers o' auld!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
We'll see if the Sharperton lasses
Are winsome, as in our young days—
If they'll rin to the ringin' o' glasses,
Or the lilt o' the auld merry lays.
Oh! we'll shake off the years wi' our laughter,
We'll wash out our wrinkles wi' dew,—
An' reckless o' what may come after,
We'll revel in boyhood anew!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
Are winsome, as in our young days—
If they'll rin to the ringin' o' glasses,
Or the lilt o' the auld merry lays.
Oh! we'll shake off the years wi' our laughter,
We'll wash out our wrinkles wi' dew,—
An' reckless o' what may come after,
We'll revel in boyhood anew!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
146
Then back to the smoke an' the smother!
The uproar an' crush o' the thrang!
An' back to the labour an' pother—
But happy an' hearty an' strang—
Wi' a braw light o' mountain an' muirland
Out-flashing frae forehead an' e'e,
Wi' a blessing flung back to the Norland,
An' a thousand, dear Coquet, to thee!
As again we resume the auld shackle,
Our gad an' our gaff stowed awa'—
An'—good-bye to the canny “red-heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
The uproar an' crush o' the thrang!
An' back to the labour an' pother—
But happy an' hearty an' strang—
Wi' a braw light o' mountain an' muirland
Out-flashing frae forehead an' e'e,
Wi' a blessing flung back to the Norland,
An' a thousand, dear Coquet, to thee!
As again we resume the auld shackle,
Our gad an' our gaff stowed awa'—
An'—good-bye to the canny “red-heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
T. W.
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