My grandsire sailed the drifters, the herrin’ for tae glean,
My faither long-lined Forties and he made the life his ain,
And I sailed oot frae Buckie, it seemed tae be the way,
But my son nae cares for fishin’,
He’ll nae tak tae the fishin’,
For he thinks nowt o’ the fishin’, nae matter what I say.

We trawled in day or darkness, in gale or snow or rain,
When the catch came in, we’d gut and pack and set the net again,
Scarce time tae sleep or eat at all, the trawl it made us slaves,
As we laboured at the fishin’,
Oftimes we cursed the fishin’,
But we dearly loved the fishin’ and the freedom that it gave.

But fishin’s nae the same today, if truth it’s to be told,
The boats that kept us safe at sea are scrapped or burned or sold,
The Golden Dawn’s now just a ghost, a photo on ma wall,
And I’m nae mair at the fishin’,
Though I long still for the fishin’,
And I sairly grieve the fishin’ and the fulmar’s sighin’ call.

The fish are gone, they tell us noo and we‘ve tae leave the sea,
For politicians words prevail tae order you and me,
Oor way o’ life’s been swept awa’, we didna have a say,
And the sun’s set o’er the fishin’,
For we raped and killed the fishin’,
An’ it’s greed that slew the fishin’ and our children have tae pay.

Yes, the sun’s set o’er the fishin’,
An’ I’ll gang nae mair tae fishin’,
Though ma hairt yearns for the fishin’, the fishin’s had its day.

The song draws on our contact with, and experience of fishing, its demise through over fishing, and the sad sight of boats ready for the breakers yard.