74 



The Coquet is quite a classic stream, and has 

 called forth, for a quarter of a century, many 

 beautiful songs from its enthusiastic visitors. 

 We shall here insert at random 



The winter blast 's dead, and the spring breezes blow ; 

 If the haughs are patched white, 'tis with daisies, not snow ; 

 The earth, for foul sleet, drinks the warm sunny rain : 

 Then, my boys, let us off to the Coquet again. 



Down the hills leap bright feeders released from their chains ; 

 The very dry heather feels blood in its veins ; 

 All nature is stirring ; strong lambs on the lea, 

 Blithe birds on the bough, shew how backward we be. 



The primrose peeps out on the edge of the burn, 

 With a doubtful pale face lest old Hyems return ; 

 Whilst the delicate perfume betrays it as clear, 

 That her pnrple-frocked playfellow hides herself near. 



The bloodhounds of glory, unkennelling now, 

 Are taking the field, as we fishers do ; 

 But with fly -rods, not muskets, we march to attack, 

 And no knapsack for us, but the creel at our back. 



The skylark and blackbird our bugles shall blow, 

 And the roll of our drums be the river's hoarse flow ; 

 Our flags are unfurling on every tree, 

 And I think we all guess where our quarters shall be. 



The waters curl freely beneath the west gale, 

 And come down from the moors like the berry-brown ale ; 

 Unfished are the slacks, and unthrashed are the streams, 

 And we 11 make our exploits beat our sanguinest dreams. 



We'll tempt them with black, and we '11 tempt them with grey, 

 Aye, the skeggers shall yield if they come in our way; 



