THE FISHERS' CALL. 



THE moor-cock is crowing o'er mountain and fell, 

 And the sun drinks the dew from the blue heather-bell ; 

 Her song of the morning the lark sings on high, 

 And hark, 'tis the milk-maid a-carolling by. 



Then up, fishers, up ! to the waters away ! 



Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. 



O what can the joys of the angler excell, 



As he follows the stream in its course through the dell ! 



Where ev'ry wild flower is blooming in pride, 



And the blackbird sings sweet, with his mate by his side. 



Then up, fishers, up ! to the waters away ! 



Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. 



Tis pleasant to walk at the first blush of morn, 

 In spring when the blossom is white on the thorn, 

 By the clear mountain stream that rolls sparkling and free, 

 O'er crag and through vale, its glad course to the sea. 



Then up, fishers, up ! to the waters away ! 



Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. 



In the pools deep and still, where the yellow trouts lie, 

 Like the fall of a rose-leaf we'll throw the light fly ; 

 Where the waters flow gently, or rapidly foam, 

 We'll load well our creels and hie merrily home. 



Then up, fishers,, up ! to the waters away ! 



Where the bright trout is leaping in search of his prey. 



