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 claithes.