EPITAPHS ON ANGLERS. 237 



They laid him in an humble grave, 



The green sod blooms upon his breast, 

 Whilst calmly flows the silver wave, 



And soothes his deep unbroken rest. 



PI8HER WATTY. 



FISHER WATTY'S dead and gane, 



Death amang his cairns has gripp't him ; 



Aft afore, whan he wad fain 



Hae made the little chiel his ain, 

 Watty gied a flaff an' slipt him. 



Noo at length the mools amang 



The elright carle has laid him fairly ; 

 Quoth he, " Ye've play'd yer fliskies lang, 

 My faith ! but ye maun and yer sang, 



An' pack away to saxton Charlie." 



Waes me ! sin' canny Mat's awa', 



I feel sae lanesome an' sae weary, 

 Tho' simmer winds abune me blaw, 

 Ilk burnie seems a rin o' snaw, 



An' Tweed gangs daundrin, douf an' dreary. 



Aft I clim' the basky brae, 



Aft I seek the holy rowan, 

 Aft the gloamin o' the day 

 Ere the stars begin their sway 



Whan the lav' rock woos the go wan. 



Aft I wanner to the stane 



The warlock stane, whar late we parted ; 

 Waes me I sin' Fisher Watty's gane, 

 My soople wan' I wald alane, 



Wi' feckless arm, ower pools deserted. 



