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Sunday Morning

On Sunday mornings bright and fresh

I take my rod oot frae the press

Big Busby meets me with his lure

Then we head up o’er the moor


Trekkin’ the few miles through the heather

Laughin’ and jokin’ and havin’ a bleather

We reach the summit tae gaze upon

The misty Cochno, still, like a mill pond


The First thing we dae when we reach the bothy

Is have ham and eggs and a mug of coffee

Wi’ everyone itchin’ tae catch a troot

Wi’ all attack wir carry oot


Now stomachs fed and thirst A’ quenched

We stagger oot fishing tae commence

Timney’s first tae make a cast

The silly buggers usually last


Howie sniggering all the time

Served him right when he broke his line

Big Les who wi drink is a’chatter

Slipped and fell intae the watter


Oh! Cochno watter pure and fresh

I’ve fished yer shores for the brownie flesh

I’ve trod yer banks in hail and snaw

And then had a donner roon the Jaw





                                           ‘The Bard O’ Bowling’

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