From 2010 ..................... :z16
(http://www.fishingthefly.co.uk/zmarch2010d.jpg)
The New Season ( by Raymond Bisset ) 2010
Gosh! The water doon here, it’s lookin’ sae bra’,
Swalt in the hills wi’ a puckle o’ sna’,
Jist waitin’ for fishers aroon’ Inverurie,
Dress’d in waders, big socks and a muckle great tourie,
Tae cast in their lures wi’ the earnest intention
O catchin’ a fish wi’ sic human invention.
Their spirits are up an’ their hopes are real high,
That fish in abundance will swallie their fly,
For there’s naething tae beat the real thrill o’ a fish,
A twenty plus pounder’s a real fisher’s wish,
So it’s oot with the rod, an’ the reel an’ the line,
Tae pursue this ambition some wid class as divine.
There’s a fair puckle loons thit can cast a guid flee,
Oot ontae the waater – or stuck up a tree!
Some are pairt o’ a club, Inverurie AA,
That’s the reason we’re staunin aroon here the day,
Fou we’re gaither’t doon here on the banks of the river,
Tae listen tae Graham as his prayer he deliver.
Noo, there’s Peter an’ Brian, an’ Steven an’ Sam,
George, Gordon, Jim, Colin, they’ll aa’ taak a dram,
File gossipin’ oan’ ‘boot the monsters they’ve hook’d,
Aye – bit sometimes the real truth they dee overlook,
For they’re fishers, ye see, wi’ a host o’ guid stories
O’ battles wi’ fish an’ some ither past glories.
Bit awa’ fae their stories they work as a team,
Tae nurture an’ nourish the game angler’s dream,
O’ fishin a river that’s crystal an’ clear
Fae man-made pollution, focht year efter year,
An’ they also maak efforts tae bring tae the fore,
An interest in fishin’ – for youngsters galore.
So tae aa’ buddin’ fishers thit staun’ here the day,
I wish ye tight lines as ye gang on yir way,
Guid luck on yir visit tae Ury or Don,
An’ as for these monsters, just bring them richt on,
So come end o’ October, fin rods are put bye,
Ye’ve enjoy’d a guid season wi’ catches richt high.
For me, one of the highlights of The March To The River Don every year are those great poems that Raymond Bisset writes for the occasion :z16
Raymond very kindly gave me his permission to put these on the website.
The photo below is from 2010 ..... and below that you can read today's poem "Address tae the Salmon".
Best wishes
Mike
(http://www.fishingthefly.co.uk/zmarch2010d.jpg)
Address tae the Salmon
Fair faa’ yir sparklin’ silvery face,
Great chieftan o’ the fishin’ race,
Abeen them aa’ ye taak yir place
Eel, perch an’ thairm,
Weel are ye worthy o’ a grace as lang’s ma airm.
The groanin’ net, aye there ye fill,
Yir back-fin shaped like mighty hill,
Yir tail thit helps tae power yir waey in time o’ need,
‘File oan yir skin, yir scales they glint,
Like silver bead.
His line, see skilful angler cast,
Upon a waatir unco’ fast,
Mendin’ its traivil thro’ the stream wi’ flees thit flash,
An’ then, o’ fit a glorious yark,
An’ mighty splash!
Fae bank tae bank, ye leap an’ sweem,
Ye bend his rod, his reel – it screams,
‘Till comes the time ‘fin tired an’ raxed wi’ sic exertion,
Ye offer up yir regal sel’,
For his assertion.
Ye lie upon a sandy shore,
Wi’ een thit’s fu’ o’ tears galore,
Ye ken yir journey’s end is near, a life noo wastit,
Hopin’ the kill is quick an’ clean,
Yir end thit’s hastit.
Bit mark that loon, an angler true,
A nature lover thro’ an’ thro’,
As gazin’ doon at sic a mairvil at his feet,
Says he – a worthy adversiry, aye –
Sae regal even in defeat.
Wis there iver a better thrill fir me,
A fresh-run fish up fae the sea,
A bar o’ silver flickerin’ in God’s sun,
Come on though man, ye canna’ halt a journey
‘Fore its done.
For this King o’ aa’ Kings, he’s traivell’t far,
Fae time he wis a salmon parr,
Gaen’ miles tae Greenland’s shore fae Scottish stream,
Then back again in twa’ years time,
Tae grasp his dream.
Which is – tae procreate his race,
Tae spread his seed wi’ pristine grace,
Ower redds wi’ waitin’ eggs in grave’lly beds,
Ensurin’ lots aa’ cocks an’ hens
In times ahead.
So Salmo Salar, I salute, a race like yours, sae resolute,
Yir aim – tae keep yir species tae the fore
Go! – continue on yir journey’s quest,
Let naething try or caase arrest,
Gaen forth an’ spawn a host o’ young galore.
© Raymond Bisset 2012