THE SKATERAW FISHERMAN
By Andrew Christie
 
While fermin' folk an' office folk
Are a' still fast asleep
The fisherman are aff to reap
The harvest o' the deep.
Ye hear the clatter o' sea boots
Afore the break o' day
As they set off wi' baited lines
Doon the shore brae.
It isna' tak' them very lang
Wi' three men to a boat
To push them doon the shingle
An' get them a' afloat.
If there's a breeze to fill their sails
They're seen far fae the shore
The Grun' o' Crags their target
Aboot five mile or more.
The lines a' shot, they hae a smoke
Until it's time to haul
Eight hundred hooks on ilka line
It tak's tae fill the scull.
By this time noo, the wives are up
They hae their work as weel
They mak' theirsel's a cup o' tea
Then mussels start to sheel
But when the boatie's comin' in
At the windlass they are waitin'
Wi' a muckle creel to haud the fish
That they're anticipatin'.
The wives they tak' the sculls up first
Wi the lines a' dreepin' weet
An' hae the breakfast ready
When the men come up tae eat.
When breakfast's ower, they start to gut
The fish, an' wash an' split them
An' then they're sautit in a tub
Until it's time to spit them.

The dinner noo gets underway
An' the hoosework a' got by
An' the lines a' on the spiltry
An' a' hung oot tae dry.
The dinner past, nae time tae sit
It's time that they were yokit
Tae spit the fish an fill the reest
An' get them a' weel smokit.
Twa hours it taks tae smoke them richt
Wi' sawdust an' wi' peat
The smoke's sae thick when ye lookin
It nearly mak's ye greet.
The men noo start tae redd the lines
They'll hae tae bait the morn
They've hooks an' tippin's to replace
Where they're broke off or worn.
The fish a' smoked, the lins a' redd
An' yet their work's nae deen
The line's tae bait, eight hundred hooks
Wi' paper in between.
They kent nae ither thing but work
An' had nae time to play
They'd slave six days in every week
An' rest the Sabbath Day.
They'd dress up in their Sunday best
An' walk up the Auld Road
Tae the service in St Ternans
Tae give their thanks tae God.
By singin' a' the weel kent hymns
An' bowin' their heads in prayer
They were a breed o' hardy folk,
That we will see nae mair.