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He run aff frae the schull, Wi' some thread and a preen,
To that hole where he saw Sic big baggies yestreen.
When the south-west win' blaws,
Aud the clouds, as they pass, Are varying the shade
And the wide-waving grass ; When the ripplin' waves hurry
Accross the deep pool, Ah ! this is the time
To be steady and cool, An' to wave your rod deftly;
Ye're flees niana whistle, But fa' on the streamlet
Like down o' the thistle.
When ye've gi'en twa-three maps,
An' a fine thumpin grilse Has lap at ye twice,
And made flutter your pulse; When at last ye have heuk't him,
An' he's aflf to the deep, Ah ! then take your time,
An' let him tak' his sweep ; Gie him plenty o' liue,
An' tak' tent o' your graith, For ye're gut no sae Strang,
An' he'll sure tvne his breath.