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| illustration: Delphine Jones |
Amidst the hefty upland hills
Live honest folk with ancient skills:
The cooper and the lowly boots,
The man who heads the pheasant shoots.
The fisher in his humble shack
Is known to all as ‘Trawler Jack’.
He rises early every day,
To keep his fiery bride at bay.
At dusky dawn, he finds a spot
To sail his raft into the lock,
But as the hours slowly pass,
He sees no salmon, pike or bass.
Alas, the seal, so apt and deft;
He’s poached the fish and swiftly left.
The poor fisher’s all alone,
With not a jot to ferry home.
As mist descents, Jack leaves his boat;
It sways and bounces, bobs afloat.
No catch has he within his grasp.
He dreads the questions he’ll be asked.
He travels homeward, cold and wet,
And at the door he’s swiftly met.
He sighs and pats his faithful dog.
His wife stands looming, like the fog.
“Hoo mony hae ye caught?” she shouts,
But Jack just shrugs and stars to pout.
“Then it’s mince and tatties fur yer tea,
Nae cullen skink fur me and ye!”
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