Fisher Jamie

Puir Jamie’s killed. A better lad
Ye wouldna find to busk a flee
Or burn a pule or weild a gad
Frae Berwick to the Clint o’ Dee.

And noo he’s in a happier land. –
It’s Gospel truith and Gospel law
That Heaven’s yett maun open stand
To folk that for their country fa’.

But Jamie will be ill to mate;
He lo’ed nae music, kenned nae tunes
Except the sang o’ Tweed in spate,
Or Talla loupin’ ower its linns.

I sair misdoot that Jamie’s heid
A croun o’ gowd will never please;
He liked a kep o’ dacent tweed
Whaur he could stick his casts o’ flees.

If Heaven is a’ that man can dream
And a’ that honest herts can wish,
It maun provide some muirland stream,
For Jamie dreamed o’ nocht but fish.

And weel I wot he’ll up and speir
In his bit blate and canty way,
Wi’ kind Apostles standin’ near
Whae in their time were fishers tae.

He’ll offer back his gowden croun
And in its place a rod he’ll seek,
And bashfu’-like his herp lay doun
And speir a leister and a cleek.

For Jims had aye a poachin’ whim;
He’ll sune grow tired, wi’ lawfu’ flee
Made frae the wings o’ cherubim,
O’ castin’ ower the Crystal Sea….

I picter him at gloamin’ tide
Steekin’ the backdoor o’ his hame
And hastin’ to the waterside
To play again the auld auld game;

And syne wi’ saumon on his back,
Catch’t clean against the Heavenly law,
And Heavenly byliffs on his track,
Gaun linkin’ doun some Heavenly shaw.