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0 world's deceit! how are we thrall'd by thee. |
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On Tweed's bonnie banks, in summer's gay light |
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Some friends of mine, for mirth and glee, |
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When blythesome May brings heather bells, |
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By silver streams and tuneful grove, |
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The waters, the waters, how clearly they flow |
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Thou art a frail and lovely thing, |
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Ye who with rod and line aspire to catch, |
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The sun of the eve was warm and bright |
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God quicken'd in the sea, and in the rivers, |
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This day dame Nature seem'd in love, |
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Awake, awake, the May-morn Sun, |
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Before the fire we sit and sing, |
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Of all the sports and pastimes, |
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Is that dace or perch ? said Alderman Birch, |
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I roam beneath a foreign sky, |
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0 let my hat be e'er so brown, |
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As in successive course the season roll, |
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Our sport is with the salmon rod, |
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Haste, anglers, arise ! from your pillows, arise |
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When sweet Spring, my friend, shall smiling |
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All arts and shapes the wily angler tries, |
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Through the long morning have I toil'd |
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Wi' boundin' step and gladsome e'e, |
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In deeps the silver Salmon loves to rove, |
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Come over the moor, come over the lea, |
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The last time I fish'd down this stream, |
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O, away to the Tweed, to the beautiful Tweed |
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