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Poem by Andrew Lang
Trout-Fishing on Tweed
As birds are fain to build their nest The first soft sunny day, So longing wakens in my breast A month before the May, When now the wind is from the West, And Winter melts away. The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill, And soft the breezes blow. If melting snows the waters fill, We nothing heed the snow, But we must up and take our will,- A-fishing we will go! Below the branches brown and bare, Beneath the primrose lea, The trout lies waiting for his fare, A happy trout is he; He's hooked and springs and splashes there Like salmon from the sea! Oh, April tide's a pleasant tide, However times may fall, And sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride, You hear the mavis call; But all adown the water-side The Spring's most fair of all.
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