THE SCOTTISH ANGLER. 



There's no a hole abune the Crook, 



Nor stane, nor gentle swirl aneath, 

 Nor drumlie rin, nor faery brook, 



That daunders through the flowery heath, 

 But ye may fin' a subtle troot, 



A' gleamin' ower wi' starn and bead ; 

 An' mony a saumont sooms about 



Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed. 



Frae Holylee to Clovenford 



A chancier bit ye canna hae, 

 So, gin ye tak' an angler's word, 



Ye'd through the whuns and ower the brae, 

 An' work awa, wi' cunnin' hand, 



Yer birzy heckles, black and reid ; 

 The saft sugh o' a slender wand 



Is meetest music for the Tweed. 



Oh, the Tweed ! the bonnie Tweed ! 



O' rivers it's the best 

 Angle here, or angle there, 

 Troots are sooming every where, 



Angle east or west. 



