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Yet, through the trees, there's still a breeze ;
The pool the gale is curling ; Beneath the beam, the glitterin' stream
Is owre the pebbles purling ; We're no' the sort to lose our sport,
Because the stream rins clearly, But thraw the line " far aff an' fine,"
An' tak' the mornin' airly.
The gleg e'ed trout we'll pick him out,
Amang the stanes fu' deftly, Our Hies shall fa', the verra snaw
Can come nae down sae saftly ; We'll 'tice them here, we'll 'tice them there.
What though they loup but sparely, Wi' a cast o' line " far aff an' fine,"
All in the mornin' airlv.
When floods come down, a callant loon
May catch them wi' a tether, And sawmon roe be a' " the go,"
For gowks in rainy weather ; But gie to me the light midge flie,
When streams are rinniu' clearly, And a cast o' line " far aff an' fine,"
All in the mornin' airly.
Newcasl/e, July 1st, 1845. R. R.