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The Muckle Broon Troot
By Anon
Sandy sent this into us when he found it at the oldest Fishing Club in Fife, Scotland

Come here wi yer rod an yer flees
An roam in the quite solitude
Whaur ye hear the hum o the bees
An yer business canna intrude
Whaur nature is never the same
An blesses a that are in need
Whaur whaups an the grouse mak their hame
An lucky troot are on the feed

Dae ye see that ripple oot there
Whaur the water wumples an glides
Gae aften ma hert is richt sair
Whan I think o the bonnie fat sides
O the fish that whumelt ma line
An scudet wa ower the pool
I thought he was sure to be mine
But noo I joost feel like a fule

I've tried him wi a butcher an teal
I've tried him wi woodcock an yellow
I'd try him wi dauds o  oatmeal
Gin I thocht him likely to swallow
The insult as weel as the lure
But fegs that cunnin three-pounder
Is naething if no verra dour
Will onything tempt him I wonder

Stap yir forrit an try yir haun
Guid luck tae yer elbuck says I
An gin ye are happy to laun
A muckle broon troot by an by
Ye'll ken weel that big ane o' mine
Hes a billie to struggle an rin
He'll tak the best pairt o yir line
Afore ye can safe bring im in

We'll done lad ye've hookit the fella
Believe me your in fur a fecht
He'll mak aw the neeburs turn yellah
Its no ilka day sic a wecht
O a troot'll come to a flee
Ye've got im at last safe an soun
Noo gie me ma specs til' a see
Guid sakes he is hardly a poun.

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