Wha’ll buy caller herrin’? 
  They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’;
Buy my caller herrin’,
    new drawn frae the Forth. 
When ye were sleeping on your pillows,
Dreamt ye aught o’ our puir fellows,
Darkling as they face the billows,
A’ to fill our woven willows. 
Buy my caller herrin’,
They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’;
Buy my caller herrin’,
    new drawn frae the Forth. 
Caller herrin’, caller herrin’.

An’ when the creel o’ herrin’ passes,
Ladies clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,
Toss their heads and screw their faces;
Buy my caller herrin’,
They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’;
Buy my caller herrin’,
    new drawn frae the Forth.

Noo neebor wives, come, tent my tellin’,
When the bonnie fish ye’re sellin’
At a word be aye your dealin’,
Truth will stand when a’ things failin’;
Buy my caller herrin’,
  They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’;
Buy my caller herrin’,
    new drawn frae the Forth. 
Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’? 
  They’re no brought here without brave darin’,
Buy my caller herrin’,
  Ye little ken their worth. 
Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’? 
  O ye may ca’ them vulgar farin’;
Wives and mithers maist despairin’,
Ca’ them lives o’ men. 
Caller herrin’, caller herrin’.

        Lady Nairne.

A HUNTING WE WILL GO.

The dusky night rides down the sky,
  And ushers in the morn;
The hounds all join in glorious cry,
  The huntsman winds his horn. 
    And a hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws
  Her arms to make him stay: 
“My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows;
  You cannot hunt to-day.” 
    Yet a hunting we will go.

Away they fly to ’scape the rout,
  Their steeds they soundly switch;
Some are thrown in, and some thrown out,
  And some thrown in the ditch. 
    Yet a hunting we will go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies,
  And sweeps across the vale;
And when the hounds too near he spies,
  He drops his bushy tail. 
    Then a hunting we will go.

Fond echo seems to like the sport,
  And join the jovial cry;
The woods, the hills the sound retort,
  And music fills the sky. 
    When a hunting we do go.

At last his strength to faintness worn,
  Poor Reynard ceases flight;
Then hungry, homeward we return,
  To feast away the night. 
    And a drinking we do go.

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn
  Prepare then for the chase;
Rise at the sounding of the horn
  And health with sport embrace. 
    When a hunting we do go.

       Henry Fielding.

HEARTS OF OAK.