THE FISHER'S WELCOME.

We twa ha' fished the Kale sae clear,
And streams o' mossy Reed;

We've tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,
The Teviot and the Tweed;

An' we will try them ance again,

When summer suns are fine;

An' we'll throw the flies thegither yet,
For the days o' lang syne.

'Tis mony years sin' first we sat
On Coquet's bonny braes,
An' mony a brither fisher's gane,
An' clad in his last claiths;
An' we maun follow wi' the lave,
Grim Death he heucks us a';
But we'll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we're ta'en awa'.

For we are hale and hearty baith,
Tho' frosty are our pows,

We still can guide our fishing graith,
And climb the dykes and knowes;
We'll mount our creels and grip our gads,
An' throw a sweeping line,

An' we'll hae a splash amang the lads,
For the days o' lang syne.

Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,

He's green below the knee,

Sae don your plaid, and tak your gad,

An' gae awa' wi' me.

Come, busk your flies, my old 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 aged 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 boatic 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,

No more,

We'll go to sea no more.

Gi'e me the fields that no man ploughs,
The farm that pays no fee.

The whole song seems

What two lines are these! 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 resist the temptation of adding the charming ballad that concludes this paper. Mr. Robert Chambers attributes the authorship to William Julius Mickle, the translator of the "Lusiad," and the writer of " Cumnor Hall," to which, and the impression made upon