Classic Poem

I

O WER at the cauld-foot
There bides an auld troot,
No mony there be that are wiser;
It baffles a' skill
To tether his gill
An' gie the sly boy a surpriser.

II

He's thick an' he's braid
Wi' sprecks like a taed
An' spangles o' ilka dimension,
Mirk spangles an' reid
Frae his waem to his heid,
In number ayont comprehension.

III.

Sic a swasher I ween
Is rare to be seen,
An' no to be grippit wi' thinkin;
It gars ilka chiel
Lay his loof on his reel
An' sets e'en the wisest a-blinkin'.

IV.

Auld Purdie cam' doon
Ane braw afternoon,
(Ilk angler taks choice o' his weather,)
Quoth he, " I'll soon bring
The knave to the spring
An' teach him the taste o' a feather. "

V.

Sae e'en he set till't,
Like ane muckle skill't,
But faith, let the braggin' come last o't;
Frae the mirk till the dawin',
In spite o' his crawin',
He ne'er could mak oot the richt cast o't.

VI.

There was Foster an' Kerse
An' a chiel frae the Merse
Wad set a' the water a seethin';
Watty Grieve an' Jock Hay
Cam ower the way
Wi' Scougal o' fair Innerleithen.

VII.

The mair were the han's,
The rifer the wan's,
Our king o' the cauld got the braver;
He bobbit aboot
Wi' his wonnerfu' snoot
An' cock't up his tail oot o' favour.

VIII.

But fling as they micht,
To the left or the richt,
Wi' mennin, mawk, lob, leech or rawin;
No a rug wad he gie,
For weel ettled he
he gear whilk the wind was a-blawin'.

IX.

Come, anglers, come a',
Baith meikle an' sma',
Tak yer chance o' the cunnin' auld reiver;
For aught that ye ken,
Mither Fortune may len'
Gude speed to yer wan's an' ye deive her.