The Auld Broon Troot
The auld broon troot lay unner a stane,
Unner a stane lay he.
An’ he thocht o’ the wind, an’ he thocht o’ the rain
An’ the troot he uist to be.
A’m a guy auld troot, said he to himsel’;
A gey auld troot, said he.
An’ there’s mony a queer-like tale I could tell
O’ the things that he’e happened to me.
Thae wee hafflin’ trooties are a’ verra smert,
They’re a verra smert, said he.
Oh, they ken a’ the rules o’ the gem aff by heart!
An’ they’re no often catched, A’ll agree.
They’re thinkin’ a’m auld,
An’ they’re thinkin’ a’m dune.
They’re thinkin’ I’m dune, said he.
They’re thinkin’ I’m no’ worth the flirt o’ a fin,
Or the blink o’ a bonny black e’e.
But a’m safe and a’m snug in ma bonnie we neuk,
A’m safe and a’m snug, said he.
A’m the big fish that nae fisher could heuk,
An’ a’ll aye be that- till ah dee! |