Scotch Fisher Girl

In Edwardian days by the Scottish sea,
Where the heather meets the rugged lea,
Fishermen toiled in the morning’s mist,
With hands weathered and calloused fists.

Their boats, small crafts on the endless blue,
Danced on waves as the gales blew through,
Netting herring, cod, and haddock fine,
In the chilly grasp of the North Sea brine.

Women mended nets on the shore,
While bairns played by the cottage door,
Kettles sang of the sea’s embrace,
With a salty tang and a gentle grace.

The dawn brought hopes of a hearty yield,
As mists gave way to sunlit fields,
Men sang songs of their fathers’ quests,
As seagulls circled, seeking rest.

In harbors snug, where the boats would moor,
Fishwives traded by the market store,
Selling the day’s fresh, silvery catch,
To townsfolk waiting in a bustling batch.

Evenings cast a golden hue,
Over waves that sparkled, crisp and true,
Stories were shared by the fireside,
Of the day’s hard work and the turning tide.

Through seasons harsh and tempests wild,
The spirit of the fisher never beguiled,
In Edwardian times by the Scottish shore,
Where the sea’s song lived forevermore.