The Poacher

The meen wis a scythe new-sherpened,
The burn wis a feerin black;
The poacher socht him a harvest,
Whaur the rinnin waves lie slack.

The meen played tig wi the gloamin,
Ben hidey-holes o pine,
Whaur currents gleam, in a coil o cream,
Coy as a coortit quine.

There, where the waves are mirkest,
The burn is a kelpie's curse;
The puil is a Baron robber,
Salmon wechtin his purse.

The poacher cast the snigger
Tae the foun o the kelpie's den,
Sliddery, sliddery, ower the bank,
Haulin the harvest hame.

Wist the meen that gart him turn?
She wis blae as a beggared bride,
Half ower, like a salmon lowpin,
Wi a hook in her tilted side...

Turn, an hyter, an tummel,
Tummel an fa, an drap,
Wi nane tae hinner or help him,
Whaur the hungry watters lap

Oh watter's a slokin pleisur,
The half o a trystin kiss
Wi the hale o a wummin's venom,
Gin ye haunle it amiss.

Fowk cried his name b' the corrie,
The corrie cried it back,
An the lang-airmed weepin willow,
Loot doon her airms an grat.

Bit the watter reeshled rarely,
Anointin his sichtless een;
Pleased wi its new-won ferlie,
A prize fur the salmon queen.

The early Dee-folk deified the river, occasionally offering her human sacrifices.

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• Poetry
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