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ON ANGLING. 133
And the win' frae the south
Comes kindly and warm. Ah ! then is the time
For the fisher to arm Wi' his rod and his creel,
And be off to the burn, Gushing fou to the brim, Wi' deep pools at ilk turn.
When the fields change their hue,
And the gowan is seen Glistin' bright through the leaves
O, the grass growing green . When the bumbee is trying
His wing near the byke, Ah ! then is the time
To jump o'er hedge and dyke, To make a short cut
To the often fish'd linn, Where the silver-mail'd sammon
Ave rests in his rin.
When the river is clearing,
The snaw broo runs out. An' the flickeim miges
Are temptin' the trout ; When the rosy-faced callan'
Is siiedin bis wan. Ah ! this is the time
Tli.it wi' worms in his ban' |
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