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’
