Come busk your flies, my auld compeer,
We're fidgen a' fu' fain,

We've fished the Coquet mony a year,
An' we'll fish her ance again.

An' hameward when we toddle back,
An' nicht begins to fa',

An' ilka chiel maun hae his crack,
We'll crack aboon them a'.

When jugs are toomed and coggens wet,
I'll lay my loof in thine;

We've shown we're gude at water yet,
An' we're little warse at wine.

We'll crack how mony a creel we've filled,
How mony a line we've flung,
How mony a ged and saumon killed,

In days when we were young.

We'll

gar the callants a' look blue,

An' sing anither tune;

They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do,
We'll tell them what we've dune.

The next song is of the sea :

Weel may the boatie row,
An' better may she speed;
An' weel may the boatie row,

That wins the bairnie's bread!
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows indeed;

An' happy be the lot of a',

That wishes her to speed!

I cuist my line in Largo Bay,

An' fishes I caught nine;

There's three to boil, and three to fry, An' three to bait the line.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed;

An' happy be the lot of a'

That wishes her to speed!

O weel may the boatie row
That fills a heavy creel,
An' cleads us a' frae head to feet,
An' buys our parritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed;

An' happy be the lot of a'

That wishes her to speed!

When Jamie vowed he wad be mine
An' won frae me my heart,
Oh muckle lighter grew my creel,

He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel;
An' muckle lighter is the lade,
When luve bears up the creel.

My curch I pit upon my heid,
And dressed mysel fu' braw ;
I trow my heart was dowf an' wae
When Jamie gaed awa'.

But weel may the boatie row,

An' lucky be her part,

An' lightsome be the lassie's care

That yields an honest heart.

When Sawney, Jock, and Jeanetie
Are up and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie row,
An' lighten a' our care.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel!

An' lightsome be her heart that bears
The murlain and the creel.

An' when wi' age we are worn down,
An' hirpling round the door,
They'll row to keep us hale and warm,
As we did them before,

Then weel may the boatie row

That wins the bairnie's bread;

An' happy be the lot of a'

That wish the boat to speed!

Again a song of the net and of the fishing-boat, and surely one of no ordinary merit. Miss Corbett is the authoress. We may well be proud of a poetess whose song is as bold and free as the breeze of which she sings:

WE'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE.

Oh! blythely shines the bonnie sun
Upon the Isle of May,

And blythely comes the morning tide

Into St. Andrew's Bay,

Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair;

And up my bra' bairns three,

There's goud in yonder bonnie boat

That sails sae weel the sea!

When haddocks leave the Frith o' Forth,

An' mussels leave the shore,

When oysters climb up Berwick Law,

We'll go to sea no more,
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

I've seen the waves as blue as air,
I've seen them green as grass;
But I never feared their heaving yet
From Grangemouth to the Bass,
I've seen the sea as black as pitch,
I've seen it white as snow;
But I never feared its foaming yet,
Though the winds blew high or low.
When squalls capsize our wooden walls,
When the French ride at the Nore,
When Leith meets Aberdour half way,
We'll go to sea no more,
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

I never liked the landsman's life,
The earth is aye the same;
Gi'e me the ocean for my dower,

My vessel for my hame.

Gi'e me the fields that no man ploughs,

The farm that pays no fee;

Gi'e me the bonny fish, that glance

So gladly through the sea.

When sails hang flapping on the masts,
While through the wave we snore;
When in a calm we're tempest-tost,
We'll go to sea no more,
No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

The sun is up, and round Inchkeith
The breezes softly blaw;

The gudeman has the lines on board :-
Awa', my bairns, awa'.

An' ye be back by gloamin' grey,

An' bright the fire will low,

An' in your tales and sangs we'll tell
How weel the boat ye row.

When life's last sun gaes feebly down,

An' Death comes to our door,

When a' the world's a dream to us,

We'll go to sea no more,

Gi'e me the fields that no man ploughs,

The farm that pays no fee.

What two lines are these? The whole song seems set to the music of the winds and waves, so free and unshackled is the rhythm, and so hearty and seamanlike the sentiment. To speak all praise in one word, it might have been written by Joanna Baillie.

Although not strictly a Fishing Song, yet as one purporting to be sung by a mariner's wife, I cannot