The Fisher Quine
Anon
She cam' tae a fisher faimily
Eichty odd years ago
Lived through the wars an' hard times
Seen mony watters ebb an' flow
Fin she wis young an' bonnie
Days that are fresh in her mine'
She followed the herrin' drifters
Fin she wis a fisher quine.
In summer, she wid gan' doon tae Shetland
The land o' the midnicht sun
Gutted or packit the herrin'
In barrels, till each day wis done
For 'oors she stood in a' weathers
In days that wir dreich or fine
Wi' fingers stiff, sair an' gory
Fin she wis a fisher quine.
At times she wid gan' tae the Orkney Isles
Peterheid, the Broch an' Week
Lived rough in digs or bothies
Times wir hard an' bleak
Wi' fingers rowd up wi' clooties
Nae manicured an' fine
Noo these days seem sae happy
Fin she wis a fisher quine.
Come Autumn, she geid tae Yarmooth
Tae follow the herrin' fleet
In dreich cauld misty mornings
She wid aften hae a greet
The shoals seemed iver endless
As they chavved among the brine
The herrin' lay 'aroon in millions
Fin she wis a fisher quine.
The barrels they filled wir countless
The 'oors they chavved wir lang
They wir aften tired an' hungry
They workit for a sang
As she looks back on the auld days
That still live in her mine'
0 that she wis still guttin' herrin'
Fin she wis a young fisher quine.
She's noo auld, a lot wiser
As she noo reclines in her chair
There's nae mony left that are like her
The past tae cherish an' care
The days o' guttin' the herrin
Wi' fingers rowd up wi' cloots
Are jist a fond distant memory
A' wrapped up in her roots
She aye tells us the stories
O'the times fresh in her mine'
Though she's noo reached her twilicht
She is still a fisher quine.
The fisher quines cam' frae a' aroon
Frae a' the airts that blaw
Frae the North Isles tae the mainland
The Hebrides an' Stornawa'
A' trying tae earn a shillin'
Wi'a deft knife in their fingers
As they gutted hunners o' crans
A' cam' doon the same line
A chapter noo written in history
Is that o' a fisher quine.
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