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 auld Compeer,
We’re fidgen a’ fu’ fain,
We’ve fished the Coquet mony a year,
And we’ll fish her ance again.