Come all ye fisher lassies, aye, come awa’ wi’ me
frae Cairnburgh and Cumhrie and frae Inveralochy
frae Buckie and frae Aberdeen and a’ the country roond
we’re awa’ tae gut the herring, we’re awa’ tae Yarmouth toon
Ye’ll leave in the morning wi’ a suitcase in yer hand
be early at the station or ye’ll surely hae tae stand
take plenty tae eat and a kettle for yer tea
or ye’ll like tae die a hunger on the way tae Yarmouth toon
Noo, the journey it’s a langin’, it takes a day or twa
but when ye reach yer lodgings it’s soon tae sleep ye’ll fa’
but ye rise at five, with the sleep still in yer e’e
ye’re awa’ tae find the herring sheds alang the Yarmouth quay
frae early in the morning, tae late intae the naecht,
yer hands are guttin’ herring and they’re looking awful saecht
and ye cry like a wheel when ye put them in the bree
and ye wish ye were a thoosand miles awa’ frae Yarmouth quay
Noo, there’s coopers there and kervers there, buyers, canny chields
lassies at the picklin’ and there’s others at the creels
ye wish the fish had been all left in the sea
by the time ye finish guttin’ herring at the Yarmouth quay
I’ve gutted fish in Lerwick, in Stornoway and Shields
I’ve worked alang the Humber ‘midst the barrels and the creels
Whitby, Grimsby, I’ve worked the country roond
but the place tae find the herring is the quay at Yarmouth toon.