The Salmon Run

Oh! away to the Tweed,
To the beautiful Tweed,
My much-loved native stream;
Where the fish from his hold,
'Neath some cataract bold,
Starts up like a quivering gleam.

From his iron-bound keep,
Far down in the deep,
He holds on his sovereign sway;
Or darts like a lance,
Or the meteor's glance,
Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.

As he roves through the tide,
Then his clear glitt'ring side
Is burnish'd with silver and gold;
And the sweep of his flight
Seems a rainbow of light,
As again he sinks down in his hold.

With a soft western breeze,
That just thrills through the trees,
And ripples the beautiful bay;
Throw the fly for a lure--
That 's a rise! strike him sure--
A clean fish--with a burst he 's away.

Hark! the ravel line sweel,
From the fast-whirring reel,
With a music that gladdens the ear;
And the thrill of delight,
In that glorious fight,
To the heart of the angler is dear.

Hold him tight--for the leap;
Where the waters are deep,
Give out line in the far steady run;
Reel up quick, if he tire,
Though the wheel be on fire,
For in earnest to work he 's begun.

Aroused up at length,
How he rolls in his strength,
And springs with a quivering bound;
Then away with a dash,
Like the lightning's flash,
Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.

Though he strain on the thread,
Down the stream with his head,
That burst from the run makes him cool;
Then spring out for the land,
On the rod change the hand,
And draw down for the deepening pool.

Mark the gleam of his side,
As he shoots through the tide!
Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?
Fatigue now begins,
For his quivering fins
On the shallows are spread in despair.