THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE 
 
 A'.SGl.KiVS 
 
 SONG HOOK. 
 
 COMPILED AND EDITED BY 
 
 ROBERT BLAKEY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 " The History of the Philosophy of Mind," &c., &c. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 GEORGE COX, KING STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 EDINBURGH : OLIVER AND BOYD. 
 
 1855.
 
 /5f 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 There have been several distinct collections of 
 Angling Songs published within the last {q\s years ; 
 but all that have fallen in my way, have been local 
 in language, turn of thought, and descriptive al- 
 lusions. There are North of England Songs, 
 Scottish Songs, and Songs in the dialects of the 
 West of England. There is not, as far as I am 
 aware, any general collection of Fishing Songs, 
 embodying the poetical warblings of piscatorians 
 of all parts of the kingdom. It is chiefly to sup- 
 ply this deficiency that the present small volume 
 is published. A great number of the pieces have 
 never been printed before, having been collected 
 from private sources ; and several have only ap- 
 peared in local newspapers, magazines, &c. They 
 have been thrown together somewhat at random ; 
 and all that can be said for their merits is, that 
 
 8GB151
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 they are the production of practical Anglers, and 
 are addressed to the feelings and sentiments of those 
 who have a sympathy with them in the prosecution 
 of their common craft. A man who makes verses 
 with a rod in his hand, on his wanderings and 
 musings on the river side, does not pretend to ap- 
 peal to the deep sympathies of the world at large. 
 His themes are trite — his range very limited ; and 
 the extent of his ambition is, that his effusions 
 may be relished by those who are fond of a common 
 source of amusement and recreation. He challen- 
 ges no learned criticism, nor does he expect his 
 brow to be encircled with wreaths of laurel. 
 
 For enthusiastic Anglers — and they are now a 
 numerous and daily-increasing body in every civil- 
 ized country — this volume is, therefore, more espe- 
 cially designed. And I can only say, that if the 
 reader derives half the pleasure from its perusal, 
 that I have experienced in collecting its contents, 
 he will find it the cheapest work he ever pur- 
 chased. 
 
 APKIL, ]li5o.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 1 
 
 Page 
 
 When fair Aurora, rising early, shews . 1 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, . . 2 
 
 You that tish for dace and roaches, . . 2 
 
 When vernal airs perfume the fields, . . 3 
 
 All in the fragrant prime of day, 
 
 As things most lov'd excite our talk, . . 5 
 
 When artful flies the angler would prepare, 7 
 
 A thousand foes the finny people chase, . 7 
 
 You must not every worm promiscuous use, 9 
 
 In genial Spring, beneath the quiv'rin' shade, 9 
 
 Oh, while fishing lasts, enjoy it, . • 10 
 
 The smallest fry grow fish in time, 
 
 I in those flowery meads would be. 
 
 Hail ! gentle stream, for ever dear, 
 
 Mark the angler's watchful eye, 
 
 A Crab there was, a dashing young blade. 
 
 Come, rouse, brother sportsmen. 
 
 One fine May-morn the wind was south, 
 
 Tom Trout, by native industry, was taught 
 
 Cocoa-nut naught, fish too dear. 
 
 By an angling stream, on a Midsummer's day, *21 
 
 The river runs muddv to-day,   • .22 
 
 10 
 12 
 13 
 14 
 
 14 
 16 
 17 
 19 
 20
 
 VIU CONTKNTS. 
 
 Page 
 There's a sultry cloud, that now doth shroud, 23 
 Lord Endless, vralking to the Hall, . . 24 
 
 Farewell, thou busy world, ... 26 
 
 Drear night has dropped her sable veil, . 29 
 
 Then, Pundants wise, pray don't despise . 31 
 
 The morning look'd grey, . . .31 
 
 Why flyest thou away with fear ? . . 34 
 Anxious by the gliding stream, . , .35 
 Fill'd with the feasts the sun or shower betrays 36 
 Should Fortune bless with halcyon scenes . 37 
 The early sun is rising fair and bright, . 38 
 
 Old Winter is gone, .... 40 
 
 When I was a mere school-boy, , . 41 
 
 O ! the marvellous at Thornville House, . 44 
 Far away from the noise and deceptions of trade, 46 
 How oft times with my rod in hand, . 47 
 
 Robin Grey, an angler, . . . .49 
 
 A fisherman one morn display'd, . . 50 
 
 I've lost my rod, my flies, and knife, . .51 
 To angle 1 went to the drains, . . 51 
 
 The rising sun's resplendent beams, . • 52 
 
 Hark ! the wiirhling birds around, . . 53 
 
 Give me the babbling brook that plays, . . 54 
 No doubt St. Patrick was an angler, . 56 
 
 From town 1 walk'd to take the air, . . 57 
 
 Last night Tom Snooks, says he to me, . 58 
 Break up the house, no more of your mag, . 60 
 South-we:>t blows the wind, and a lowering sky, 61
 
 CONTENTS. ix 
 
 Pa^e 
 
 I went down by " The Angler" to Ditton — 62 
 
 Or haply on some river's cooling bank, . 64 
 
 The day is clear, the wind is fair, . . 65 
 
 Come, fuddle, fuddle, drink about, , . 66 
 
 Gentle stranger, have you seen, . . » 67 
 
 Young smiling Spring, all clad in green, . 68 
 
 On the banks of some peaceful stream, . 69 
 
 Thou bonny fish from the far sea . . 70 
 
 You see the ways the fisherman doth take . 72 
 
 It chanc'd that an angler, who liv'd at Clieapside, 73 
 
 Northumberland lads, who use the gads, . 74 
 
 Let us love to be merry and wise, . . 75 
 
 When I was young and in my prime, . . 76 
 
 There was a gentle angler, ... 78 
 
 Come, change', your-taper rods, my lads . 79 
 
 The heavens are bright, the morning gale, 80 
 
 Coiiie, my lads, from your pillows spring, . 82 
 
 What equals on earth the delight of the angler, 84 
 
 Angling one summer morn alone, . . 85 
 
 Care knows not the lad that is merry, . 86 
 
 Awake, up, up !^and away to the streams, . 87 
 
 Albeit, gentle reader, 1 delight not in my trade, 88 
 
 O'er moorland, and mountain, . . .89 
 
 Reclin'd upon a bank of moss, , , 90 
 
 In day's of old, when first refinement's light 9l 
 
 To the stream let us go, ... 92 
 
 How sweet is the breath of the briar, . 92 
 
 As pants the hart for Hater brooks, . 93
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Haste to the streamlet ! see, the sun . . 95 
 Oh ! pleasant are the green banks of the Lea, 97 
 The Rud, a kind of roach, all ting'd with gold, 99 
 By purling streams, in shady dell, . . 100 
 Let's fish and let's sing together, . . lOl 
 
 Dark is the ever flowing stream, . . 102 
 Beneath the still waters is the Fen King, 103 
 
 At setting eve and rising morn, . . 105 
 
 To campes and courts let others rove, . . 106 
 The dark grey of gloamin', the lone leafy shaw, 107 
 An angler's life has joys for me, . , 108 
 
 Let others crowd the giddy court, . . 108 
 When this old rod was new, . . . 109 
 
 Some youthful gallant here perhaps will say, 113 
 Farewell to the maid of my heart, . .113 
 
 Here's a bumper to rod and to spear ! . 115 
 
 Sure Whiting is no fasting Dish, . .116 
 
 Come, launch the light canoe, . . 117 
 
 Bright flowers are sinking, . . .118 
 
 With rod and line in hand, , . .118 
 
 Me no pleasure shall enamour, . . .119 
 
 Tho' jest-loving wight has thought fit to divine, 1 20 
 Hail ! gentle goddess, blooming Spring, . 121 
 By shady woods and purling streams, . 121 
 What pleasures wait the angler's life, . . 122 
 
 Hark ! anglers of the north, . . . 124 
 Some morning now with balm unwonted fraught 125 
 On Till's clear streams that runs so deep, 126
 
 CONTENTS. Xf 
 
 Page 
 If any SO wise IS, tliat angling despises, . 126 
 
 He gazed with admiration unsurpassed, . 127 
 
 Loe, in a litile boat wliene one doth stand, . 129^ 
 Around cap-a-pie, with baskets, bags, and rods, 129 
 
 Bring thy rod to the peaceful rill, , .131 
 
 Right socially we live, and never disagree, 182 
 
 When cauld winter is past, . . . 132 
 
 Push about the bottle, lads, . . . 135 
 
 Broader rivers please us then, . . .136 
 But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale, 138 
 
 Blow, zephyr, and whisper the maid, . .139 
 
 It was Oil a summer's morning, . . 140 
 
 Away with dull care, and rigid frugality, . 142 
 
 Here's good luck to the gad, , . 143 
 Fill, boys, and drink, wine will banish sorrow, 144 
 
 Then get good hair, so that it be not black, 144 
 
 The greedy pike lies basking cool, . . 145' 
 
 Hail, Angling pleasure, . . . 147 
 
 The lassie by the streamlet side, . . .148 
 
 It was the charming month of May, . 150 
 
 My grandsire is an angler old, . . . 151 
 
 Swift stream, if e'er thy limpid flow, . 152 
 
 The rising sun, with ruddy locks, . .153 
 
 A brother of the angle n)U3t always be sped, 154 
 
 The noithern lights are flashing, . . 155 
 
 When I desire to muse alone, . . 156 
 
 Come, let us laugh, let us angle and sing, . 156 
 
 T have cliinb'd by the mountain rills, . 157
 
 XII CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 To you, true fishers, now in town, , , 158 
 We are all just like brother and brother, . 158 
 Let landsmen boast of pleasures, . .159 
 
 Come, follow me, right down the lea, . 160 
 No glory 1 covet, no riches I want, . .161 
 In childhood's days, when summer came, . 162 
 'Tis life to young anglers in early spring time, 164 
 Angling and free, for pleasure born, . 164 
 
 O bliss divine ! a salmon flound'ring at my line, 165 
 Think, when thou seest the bait, . . 165 
 VVhen the sun is shining low, . . . 166 
 When vernal airs perfume the fields, . 167 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose, . .168 
 
 If thou lovest a quiet joy, . . . 169 
 
 Ye fishermen of Scotland, .... 170 
 Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, 171 
 Sportive young River, we've rambled together, 172 
 Mr. Walton, it's harsh to say it, . . 174 
 
 Fishing weather's coming, lads, . . , 176 
 And this, the bravest fellow, . . . 177 
 
 Angling tends our bodies to exercise, . . 183 
 
 Thy wooded heights, fair Cavche, I leave, 184 
 
 I've seen the smiling primrose flower . . 185 
 Vale of bliss ! M'hat joy to wander, . . 186 
 The waters not too high, too thick, too clear, 187 
 What though the hunter's horn be mute, 188 
 
 When worldly cares corrode the heart, . , 189 
 A hungry fish once chanc'd to spy, . 190
 
 CONTKNT9. Xltl 
 
 Page 
 
 world's deceit ! how are we thrall'd by thee, 191 
 On Tweed's bonnie banks, in summer's gay light 192 
 Some friends of mine, for mirth and glee, . 193 
 When blythesome May brings heather bells, 196 
 By silver streams and tuneful grove, . . 1 97 
 The waters, the waters, how clearly they flow, 198 
 Thou art a frail and lovely thing, . .198 
 Ye who with rod and line aspire to catch, 199 
 The sun of the eve was warm and bright . 200 
 God quicken'd in the sea. and in the rivers, 202 
 This day dame Nature seem'd in love, . . 203 
 Awake, awake, the May-morn Sun, . 204 
 Before the fire we sit and sing, . . . 206 
 Of all the sports and pastimes, . . 207 
 Is that dace or perch ? said Alderman Birch, 208 
 
 1 roam beneath a foreign sky, , . . 209 
 O let my hat be e'er so brown, . . .210 
 As in successive course the season roll, . 211 
 Our sport is with the salmon rod, . .212 
 Haste, anglers, arise ! from your pillows, arise, 214 
 When sweet Spring, my friend, shall smiling 216 
 All arts and shapes the wily angler tries, . 217 
 Through the long morning have I toil'd .218 
 Wi' boundin' step and gladsome e'e, . 220 
 In deeps the silver Salmon loves to rove, . 222 
 Come over the moor, come over the lea, . 223 
 The last time I fish'd down this stream, . 224 
 O, away to the Tweed, to the beautiful Tweed, 226
 
 XIV CONTENTS, 
 
 Page 
 
 On yon fair brook's cnamell'd side, . . 228 
 
 Awake, my boys — awake, arise ! . . 230 
 
 Mark well the various seasons of the year, 231 
 
 On thy banks, limpid Thames, as I stand, . 232 
 
 My lover he lives by the pure river side, . 233 
 
 On Tweed's fair banks a castle stands, . 234 
 
 No more the angler's silent trade I ply, . 236 
 
 O ! Mary, look, how sweetly Spring . . 238 
 
 When smiling felicity warbles her song, . 239 
 
 We're all a-fishing, fish, fish, fishing, . . 240 
 
 Of all the recreations which, . . 241 
 
 Oh, the days when we went an angling, . 243 
 
 No fairer land can meet the eye, . . 245 
 
 But I'll tak' leave o' queenly Dee, . . 246 
 
 I winna sing o' war nor wine, . . 247 
 
 Come, anglers, come, for work prepare, . 248 
 
 Now the finny brood united, . . 249 
 
 It's late, my lad, to tak' the gad, , . 250 
 
 Anxious, by the gliding stream, . . 252 
 
 As late by the Thames's verdant side, . . 253 
 
 O bold singing spirit of Loch Neagh's lovely vale 254 
 
 Up, angler, up, and be oft' to the river, . 255 
 
 Bright blaz'd the fire of crackling wood, . 250 
 
 When atop the hoary western hill, . . 257 
 
 To you who love the lonely shade, . . * 259 
 
 Who ha« not, if he's fond of whim, . . 263 
 
 With feelings strange and undefined, . 267 
 
 The Rhine, the Rhine, thou noble stream, . 269
 
 CONTENTS. Xr 
 
 Page 
 Come, fairest land, we owe to thee, . 270 
 
 It was on the Liffy's higher streams, . . 272 
 Grown tir'd of the town and its noisy pursuit, 273 
 The grass is wet with shining dew, . . 274 
 
 Thou that hast lov'd so long and well, . 275
 
 SONGS, cfec. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 When fair Aurora rising early sliews 
 Her blushing face beyond the eastern hills. 
 And dyes the heavenly vault with jmrple rewes, 
 That far abroad the world with brightness iills; 
 The Meadows green are hoare with silver dews, 
 That on the earth the sable niglit distils. 
 
 And chanting birds with merry notes bewray, 
 The near approaching of the cheerful day. 
 
 Then let him go to river, brook or lake. 
 That loves the sport, where store of fish abound. 
 And through the pleasant fields his journey make. 
 Amidst sweet pastures, meadows fresh and sound, 
 Where he may best his choice of pastime take. 
 While swift Hyperion runs his circle round ; 
 And as the place shall to his liking j)rove. 
 There still remain, or further else remove. 
 
 John Df.nnys. IGl.'J- 
 
 B
 
 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE THAMES. 
 
 Glide gentl}', thus for ever glide, 
 O Thames ! that anglers all may see. 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 As now, fair river come to me. 
 
 O glide fair stream ! for ever so. 
 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing. 
 Till all our minds for ever How 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 
 FISHING FOR GUDGEON AND ROACHES. 
 
 You that fish for dace and roaches. 
 Carps or trenches, bonus noches. 
 Thou wert borne betweene two dishes. 
 When the P'riday signe was Fishes. 
 Angler's yeares are made and spent 
 All ill Ember weekes and Lent; 
 Breake thy rod about thy noddle, 
 Tlirow thy worms and flies by the pottle,^ 
 Kcej) thy cork to stop thy bottle : 
 Make straight thy hooke, and be not afraid 
 
 To shave thy beard ; 
 That, in case of started stitches, 
 Hooke and line may mend thy breeches. 
 
 1656.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 3 
 
 THE ANGLER'S LIFE. 
 Tune. — "The Banks of Indermayy 
 When vernal airs perfume the fieldS;, 
 And pleasing views the landscape yields, 
 The limpid stream, the scaly breed, 
 Invite the angler's waving reed. 
 The musing swain what pleasures seize ! 
 The talking brook, the sighing breeze, 
 The active insect's buzzing wing, 
 And birds that tuneful ditties sing. 
 
 At latest eve, at early da^n. 
 
 The angler quests the scented lawn, 
 
 And roams, to snare the finny brood. 
 
 The margin of the flow'ry flood. 
 
 Now at some osier wat'ry root 
 
 The Chub beguiles, or painted Trout ; 
 
 No cares nor noise his senses drown. 
 
 His pastime, ease and silence crown. 
 
 Adieu, ye sports of noise and toil, 
 That crowds in senseless strife embroil ; 
 The jockey's mirth, the huntsman's train. 
 Debauch of health, and waste of gain. 
 More mild delights my life employ. 
 The angler's uuexpensive joy ; 
 Here I can sweeten fortune's frowns. 
 Nor envy kings the bliss of crowns.
 
 4 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF ANGLING. 
 Tune. — ''All in the Downs." 
 
 All in the fragrant prime of day, 
 
 Ere Phoebus sj)rea(ls around his beams, 
 
 The early Angler takes his way 
 
 To verdant banks of crystal stream. 
 
 If health, content, and thouglitful musing charm. 
 
 What sport like Angling can our cares disarm :' 
 
 That ev'ry sense delight enjoys. 
 
 Zephyr with odours loads his wing ; 
 
 Flora displays ten thousand dyes. 
 And varied notes the warblers sings. 
 If health, &c. 
 
 On the soft margin camly plac'd, 
 
 Pleas'd he beholds the linny brood 
 Through the transparent fluid haste, 
 
 Darting along in quest of food. 
 If health, &c. 
 The skilful Angler opes his store, 
 
 (Paste, Worms, or Flies his hook sustains,) 
 And quickly spreads the grassy shore 
 
 With shining spoils that crown his pains. 
 If health, &c. 
 
 If some fierce shower in floods descends, 
 A gloomy grove's thick shade is near ; 
 
 Whose grateful umbrage safe defends 
 'Till more inviting skies sppear. 
 If health, &c.
 
 ON ANGLING- 
 
 There blissful thoughts his mind engage. 
 To crouded noisy scenes unknown ; 
 
 Wak'd by some bard's instructive page, 
 Or calm reflections all his own. 
 If health, &c. 
 
 Thus whether groves or meads he roams, 
 Or by the stream his Angle tends ; 
 
 Pleasure in sweet succession comes. 
 And the sweet rustic never ends. 
 If health, &c. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S SONG. 
 
 As things most lov'd exite our talk. 
 Some praise the hound, and some the hawk ; 
 Whilst those who chuse less rustic sport. 
 Tennis, or some fair mistress court: 
 
 But these delights I neither wish. 
 
 Nor envy, while I freely fish. 
 
 Who hunt, in dangers often ride ; 
 
 Who hawk, oft lure both far and wide ; 
 
 Who game, shall frequent losses prove ; 
 
 VVhile the fond wretch allur'd to love. 
 Is fetter'd in blind cupid's snare — 
 My Angle breeds me no such care.
 
 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 No other pastimes (thus employ'd) 
 Yield us such freedom while enjoy'd ; 
 AH recreations else, no less 
 Than mind and body both possess. 
 
 IVIy hand, alone, my work can do : 
 
 So 1 can fish and study too. 
 
 I have not angling (rude) on seas. 
 
 Fresh streams my inclination please ; 
 
 Whose sweet calm course to thought I call, 
 
 And seek in life to copy all : 
 
 In bounds (like their's) I fain would keep, 
 Like them would (when I break them) weep. 
 
 And when the timerous trout I Mait 
 To take, and he devours my bait ; 
 How small, how poor a thing, I find. 
 Will captivate a greedy mind ; 
 
 Who comes more welcome to my dish. 
 
 Than to my angle was my fish. 
 
 Content, as well^ if nought I take. 
 As use, of what obtain'd, to make — 
 Christ thus was pleas'd. His fishers when 
 He happier fishers made of men. 
 
 Where — (which no other sport can claim) 
 A man may fish and praise His name. 
 
 His first attendants chose on earth. 
 
 Blest fishers were, of meanest birth ; 
 
 And fish^ as sacred record show, 
 
 Was His last-tasted food below — 
 I therefore strive to follow those, 
 Whom, Him to follow, He hath chose.
 
 ON ANGLING. / 
 
 THE FLY. 
 
 When artful flies the anj^ler would prepare. 
 
 This task of all deserves his utmost skill ; 
 
 Nor verse nor prose can ever teach him well 
 
 What masters only know, and practice tell. 
 
 Yet thus at large I venture to support. 
 
 Nature best follow'd best secures the sport. 
 
 Of flies the kinds, their seasons, and their breed. 
 
 Their shapes, their hues, with nice observance heed ; 
 
 Which most the trout admires, and where obtain'd 
 
 Experience best will teach you, or some friend ; 
 
 For several kinds must ev'ry month supply, 
 
 So great's his passion for variety ; 
 
 Nay, if new species on tlie streams you hnd, 
 
 Trvj you'll acknowledge fortune amply kind. 
 
 Moses Browne. 
 
 ENEMIES OF FISH. 
 
 A thousand foes the finny people chase ; 
 Nor are they safe from their own kindred race ; 
 The Pike, fell tyrant of the liquid plain, 
 With rav'nous waste dovours his fellow train ; 
 Yet, howsoe'er with raging famine pin'd. 
 The Trench he spares, his salutary kind. 
 Hen(;e too the I'earch, a like varacious brood. 
 Forbears to make this gen'rous race his food..
 
 8 SOXGSj ETC. 
 
 Tlio' in the common drove no bound he finds. 
 
 But spreads unmeasur'd waste o'er all the kind?. 
 
 Nor else the greedy Trout and glutless Eel 
 
 Incesssnt woes, and dire destruction deal. 
 
 The lurking Water-Rat in caverns preys, 
 
 And in the weeds tlie wily Otter stays ; 
 
 The ghastly Newt in muddy streams annoys. 
 
 And in swift floods the felly Snake destroys ; 
 
 Toads for the swarming fry forsake the lawn, 
 
 And croaking Frogs devour the tender spawn. 
 
 Neither the habitants of land nor air, 
 
 (So sure their doom) the fishy numbers spare ! 
 
 The Swan, fair legent of the silver tide, 
 
 Tlu'ir ranks destroys, and spread their ruin wide ; 
 
 The Duck her ofi'spring to the river leads. 
 
 And on the destin'd fry insatiate feeds; 
 
 On fatal wings the pouncing Bittern soars. 
 
 And wafts her prey from the defenceless shores ; 
 
 The watchful Halcyons to the reeds repair. 
 
 And from their haunts the scaly captive bear ; 
 
 Sharp Herns and Corm 'rants too their tribes oppress, 
 
 A harrass'd race, peculiar in distress ; 
 
 Nor can the muse enumerate their foes. 
 
 Such is their fate, so various are their woes.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 9 
 
 ON WORM FISHING. 
 
 You must not erery worm promiscuous use. 
 Judgment will tell the proper baits to choose, 
 The worm that draws a long immod'rate size. 
 The trout abhores, and the rank morsel flies. 
 And if too small, the naked frauds in sight. 
 And fear forbids while danger does invite. 
 Those baits will best reward the fisher's pains. 
 Whose polish'd tails a shining j^ellow stains. 
 Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss. 
 Cherish the sully'd reptile then with moss ; 
 Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil, 
 And from their bodies wipe their native soil. 
 
 Gay. 
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 BY POPE 
 
 In genial spring, beneath the quiv'rin shade, 
 Where cooling vapours breath along the mead. 
 The patient fisher take? his silent stand. 
 Intent, his angle trembling in his hand ; 
 With looks unmov'd he hopes the scaly breed. 
 And eyes the danceing cork, and bending reed. 
 Oiu' plenteotis streams a various race suppl}'. 
 The bright-cy'd Perch, with fins of tyrian dye ; 
 The silver Eel, in shining volumes roll'd, 
 The yellow Carp, in scales be-drop'd with gold 
 Swift Trouts, diversifj'd with crimson stains. 
 And Pikes, the tyrant of the watry plains.
 
 10 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 INVITATION. 
 
 Oh, while fishing lasts enjoy it, 
 
 Let us to the streams repair ; 
 Snatch some hours fBom toil and stud}'. 
 
 Nature's blessed gifts to share. 
 Ye who stand behind the counter. 
 
 Or grone palled at the loom. 
 Leave the measure and the shuttle. 
 
 Come to the rippling stream, come. 
 
 He that clothed their banks with verdure, 
 
 Dotted them with various flowers; 
 Meant that ye, though doom'd to labour. 
 
 Should enjoy some cheering houi's. 
 Wipe your reeking brows and with us. 
 
 With you're basket and your rod ; 
 And with happy hearts look up from 
 
 Nature unto Nature's God. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN AND THE LITTLE FISH, 
 
 The smallest fry grow fish in time. 
 If not cut off before their prime ; 
 
 But he that throws them in the stream, 
 In hopes when grown to take again, 
 
 Will very likely lose his aim. 
 And bait his hook in vain.
 
 ON ANGLING. 11 
 
 A little Carp from span just hatch'd. 
 Once on a luckless day was catch'd ; 
 The fislier smiling at his prey ; 
 
 Quoth he, 'tis somethicg to begin, 
 Into my wallet shew the way, 
 
 For greater to go in. 
 The Carping saw the impending fate, 
 And strove with all his little prate. 
 
 To ward the fatal blow ; 
 
 Alas ! he cry'd, in me 
 
 A puny scanty thing you see. 
 
 Not worth a Shrimp or Grig ; 
 Indeed you'd better let me go. 
 
 And catch me when I'm big. 
 I then will prove a noble fish, 
 
 To grace my Lord Mayor's board; 
 Thus he will have a dainty dish, 
 
 And you increase your hoard. 
 I'm not a mouthful for a child ; 
 
 A hundred such as I 
 
 flight on a saucer lie. 
 Unfit for eating, fry'd or boil'd ; 
 AVhy then shall be broiled. 
 
 Our angler he made reply, 
 
 And that this very night. 
 The fisherman was in the right. 
 
 This lesson can never be too often c oun'd, 
 A fish in the pan is worth two in the pond. 
 
 1751.
 
 12 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S WISH. 
 
 I in those flowery meads would be ; 
 
 Those crystal streams should solace nie ; 
 
 To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
 
 I with my angle would rejoice. 
 Sit here, and see the turtle dove 
 Court his chase mate to acts of love. 
 
 Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 
 Breath health and plenty : please m\ mind, 
 To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers. 
 And then Avash'd ofl" by April showers ; 
 
 Here, hear my Kenna sing a song ; 
 
 There, see a blackbird feed her young. 
 
 Or a laverock build her nest ; 
 Here, give my weary spirits rest, 
 And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above 
 Earth, or what poor mortals love : 
 Thus free from lawsuits and the noise 
 Of princes' courts, 1 would rejoice. 
 
 Or, with my Bryan and a book. 
 Loiter long days near Shawford brook ; 
 There sit by him, and eat my meat, 
 There see the sun both rise and set : 
 There bid good morning to next day ; 
 There meditate my time away ; 
 
 And angle on ; and beg to have 
 
 A (juiet passage to my grave.
 
 ON ANGLING. l3 
 
 TO THE RIVER NITH. 
 
 Hail, gentle stream ! for ever dear 
 Thy rudest murmurs to my ear ! 
 Turn from thy banks, tliough far I rove. 
 The slave of poverty and love. 
 Ne'er shall thy bard, wher'ere he be, 
 Without a sigh remember thee ! 
 For there my infant years began, 
 And there my happiest minutes ran ; 
 And there to love and friendship true, 
 The blossoms of affection grew. 
 
 Blyth on thy banks, thou sweeted stream. 
 
 That ever nurs'd a poet's dream ! 
 
 (If youth could sanctify a crime,) 
 
 With hazel rod, and fraudful fly. 
 
 Ensnared thy unsuspecting fry ; 
 
 In pairs have dragg'd them from their den. 
 
 Till chas'd by lurking fishermen. 
 
 Away I've flown as fleet as wind. 
 
 My lagging followers far behind ; 
 
 And when the vain pursuit was o'er. 
 
 Returned successful as before. 
 
 John Mavne.
 
 14 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE TROUT CATCHER. 
 
 Mark the angler's watchful eye 
 Mark the prudent well-forni'd fly, 
 Trembling here and there about, 
 'Tis to catch the speckled trout. 
 
 Mark the anxioTiK, cautious tread. 
 Verging near the weedy bed ; 
 Mark the line, now in, now out, 
 'Tis to trap the speckled trout. 
 
 Mark the sportsman's joy and fears. 
 As the wish'd-for prey appears ; 
 Mark the look 'twixt hope and doubt. 
 Ere is caught the speckled trout. 
 
 Mark the angler's wrapt delight. 
 As the victim marks his bite ; 
 Now resounds the conjuror's shout. 
 Now is caught the speckled trout. 
 
 Upton. 
 
 THE LOVES OF THE SHELL FISHES. 
 
 Tune.— "T/^e Cork Leg." 
 
 A Crab there was a dashing young blade, 
 And he was in love with a lobster maid ; 
 But the lobster maid was a terrible prude, 
 And she told her mamma that the crab was rude. 
 
 Ri too ral, &c.
 
 ON ANGLING, 15 
 
 Said lier dear mamma, pray what did he do ? 
 Did he give you a kiss or a billet doux ? 
 Oh, no, says she vfith a toss of her head. 
 But he jogles me so, 'tis so shocking ill bred. 
 
 Ri too ral, ^'c. 
 
 I vow if he still persists in his suit, 
 I'll box the ears of the impudent brute ; 
 But an oister dandy saw the maid. 
 Oh, split me says he if I'm afraid. 
 
 Ri too ral, &c. 
 
 So tighter he braced his corset shell, 
 And strutted away with a broadway swell. 
 And he told the maid as he twirl'd his seal, 
 He'd die at her feet if a dandy could kneel. 
 
 Ri too ral. Sec. 
 
 Oh, sir, said she, since that can't be. 
 You know you can hang yourself ou a tree ; 
 And the oister rav'd, but no said she. 
 You never shall die of scorn for me. 
 
 Ri too ral, &c. 
 
 So she gave him her ruby red hand to kiss. 
 And he felt like a fish in a sea of bliss ; 
 But the crab he cock'd his hat in their faces. 
 And challenged the oister to fight at two paces. 
 
 Ri too ral, &c. 
 
 The ground was mark'd and they took their stand. 
 And a Barnacle gave the word of command ; 
 They took their aim, and the oister fell, 
 But, alas ! the worst of the tale's to tell. 
 
 Ri too ral, &c.
 
 IG SONGS, ETC. 
 
 A giddy young muscle just passed that way, 
 And saw tlie end of the fatal affray ; 
 He declared the lobster's love was sham, 
 For he'd just seen her married that night to a clam. 
 
 Ri too ral, &c. 
 
 ANGLING SONG. 
 
 Come rouse brother sportsman the. clock has struck 
 
 four, 
 Let your tackle be stout, see of baits that you've store. 
 
 Worms, maggots, or flies, as the season turns out. 
 
 To tempt and to capture, pike perch, carp, or trout. 
 
 From Hockley, we down to the Furnace-pool stroll. 
 At Benson's, or perhaps, at the slitting-mill troll : 
 The lakes having scoui'd, if indifferent our luck. 
 We quit the Broadwaters and haste to the brook. 
 
 The morning is fair — serene the air, 
 
 The fields around look gay ; 
 South-west the wind — the fish you'll find. 
 
 Will freely bite this day. 
 
 And a fishinfj we will 2:0. 
 
 O'er hedge and ditch, whilst huntsmen bound, 
 
 Alare, alare, they call ; 
 The peaceful angler steps the ground 
 
 As soft as foot can fall. 
 
 And a fishing we will go. 
 
 Eight pounds a fish we pike ensnare, 
 
 Tho' sometimes break our line ; 
 Tiieii think on such delicious fare, 
 
 Hoiv gloriously we dine. 
 
 And a fishing we will go.
 
 ON" ANGI^ING. 17 
 
 GOING OUT A FJSHING. 
 
 One fine May.morn the wind was >uurh, 
 
 When Bill' Brown and I; 
 Resolved to make a holiday. 
 
 Our fishing skill to try: 
 Each had his tackle veil prepar'd. 
 
 Rods, lines, and baits we took. 
 And tho' we'd nets to catch the fiah, 
 
 We caught them — ivitk a hook. 
 Oh, the angling, with worm and gentle dan^liutf, 
 
 F'rom line and hook no tish we took 
 The day we went out angling ! 
 
 At last we reached a pleasant pond. 
 
 And gazed with hope elate ; 
 Cried Brown, "we ne'er shall tempt a )i*ih. 
 
 My friend, unless we bait.'' 
 With that, he brought out bread and chresf-. 
 
 And ate with all his might ; 
 And then observed, "Whate'er our luck. 
 
 At least I've got a bite. 
 
 Oh, the angling, fic. 
 Now Brown desirous to beein. 
 
 He gobbled in such haste ; 
 lie ate the bread, and by mistake. 
 
 Soon swallo^ved all the paste ! 
 Our gentles died, and w(»rnis were scarce, 
 
 But soon we made these terms ; 
 That as the worms would /ec</ the fish. 
 
 Some day, we'd feed the worrnx. 
 Oh, the angling, &c.
 
 13 SONGSj ETC. 
 
 Then Browu climbed up a willow trce^ 
 
 And left me in the lurch ; 
 Says he, "As mine's a new % rod, 
 
 Why, here TU take my perch ; 
 And tho' no nibble we should get. 
 
 For fate oft disappoints ; 
 I'm sure we sha'nt a dinner want. 
 
 My rod has seven joints. 
 
 Oh. the angling, <S:c. 
 
 And there we fish'd from rise of sun 
 
 Until it ceased to shine ; 
 Sometimes we both troll'd out a verse,, 
 
 Sometimes troll'd out a Line: 
 A o-rinning countryman came up, 
 
 Said he. "In vain you zeek 
 Vor vish in that here pond, good zur, 
 
 'Twar 07ily dug last week. 
 
 Oh, the angling, &c. 
 
 "There beadt no vish ! " the bumpkin cried, 
 
 "Except some water ruts, 
 But since you conied, the pond may boast, 
 
 A pretty brace oi fiats :" 
 I'd ask those folks who jeer at us. 
 
 And seem of self so fond ; 
 How they would catch a dish of tish. 
 
 What was not in the pond ? 
 
 Oh, the angling, &c.
 
 GN ANGLING. I 9 
 
 THE FISHERMAN. 
 
 TROUT AND TROT. 
 
 Tom Trout, by native industry, was tauglit 
 The various art- — how hshes may be caught ; 
 To basket oft he'd pliant oziers turn, 
 Where they might entrance find — but no return. 
 But when he would a quick destruction make. 
 And from afar much larger booty take, 
 Through the quick stream lie'd very shrewdly set. 
 From side to side, his strong capacious net. 
 And then his rustic crew, with mighty poles, 
 Compeil'd the fish to quit their oozy holes ; 
 And then pursu'd them down the rolling fioofl. 
 Gasping for breath, and almost choak'd with niufl. 
 
 Dick Trot, who liv'd below — ne'er thought his bt'er 
 Was good except he had his water clear — 
 He goes to Trout, and thus begins his tale : — 
 Ah ! if you knew but how the people rail ; 
 They cannot boil, nor wash, nor bf^rv, they say. 
 With Avater, sometimes ink, and sometimes whey ; 
 According as you meet with mud or clay. 
 Now is it not a dismal thing to think- 
 How we Old Trots must live, and have no drink ? 
 Therefore, my friend, some other method take 
 Of fishing, were it only for our sake. 
 
 Says Trout, I'm sorry it should be my lot, 
 
 Ever to disoblige my neighbour Trot ; 
 
 The fault's not mine, 'tis Fortune that thus tries one 
 
 You know, "what's one man's meat's another's poison.
 
 20 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Therefore, in patience rest, thougli I proceed ; 
 There's no ill nature in the case — but need. 
 Though for your use this water may not ser\e, 
 I'd rather you should choke than I sliould starve. 
 
 LINES FROM WILLIAM COW PER, 
 
 THE POET, 
 TO MRS. NEWTON. 
 
 Cocoa-nut nauglit, 
 
 Fish too dear. 
 None must be bought 
 
 For us that are here. 
 
 No lobster on earth. 
 
 That ever I saw, 
 To me would be Morth 
 
 Sixpence a claw. 
 
 So, dear Madam, wait 
 
 Till fish can be got 
 At a reasonable rate, 
 
 Whether lobster or not. 
 
 Till the French and the Dutch 
 
 Have quitted the seas, 
 And then send as much 
 
 And as often as you please.
 
 ON ANGLING. 2l 
 
 BY AN ANGLING STREAM. 
 
 By an angling stream, on a Midsummer's eve, 
 VVIiere woodbines and jes'mine their bows interweave; 
 Fair Flora^ I cry'd, to my arbour repair ; 
 1 must have a chaplet for sweet William's hair. 
 
 I must, &c. 
 
 She brought me the violet that grew on the hill, 
 The vale-dwelling, and gilded jonquil ; 
 But such languid odours how could I approve, 
 Just warm from the lips of the lass that I love ? 
 
 Just warm, &c. 
 
 She brought me his faith, and his truth to display, 
 The undying myrtle, and ever green bay ; 
 But why these to me, who've his constancy known > 
 And Billy has laurels enough of his own. 
 
 And Billy, &c. 
 
 The next was a gift that I could not contemn, 
 For she brought me two rosets, that grew on the stem 
 Of the dear nuptial tie, they stood emblems confest ; 
 So I kiss'd them, and prest them quite close to my 
 breast. So I kiss'd, &c. 
 
 She brought me a sun-flower ; this fair-ones your 
 
 due ; 
 For it once was a maiden, and love-sick for you ; 
 O give it me quick ; to my angler I'll run, 
 A> true to his flame as this flower to the sun. 
 
 As true, &c.
 
 22 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 A WARM MAN FISHING. 
 
 Time — Noon. 
 
 The river runs muddy to day 
 
 The hooks are baited with lobs ; 
 ^Ve'll take the lish home in a chai' — 
 
 But mark yonder float, sure it hobs I 
 
 A fish is most certainly look, 
 
 I'll draw it with speed to the shore ; 
 
 And when I've baited the hook, 
 I'll cast it, and wait for one more. 
 
 O, death to my hopes ! — 'twas a weed ! 
 
 Ah ! why did they plant their weeds there .'* 
 It is so provoking indeed ! 
 
 But hope is the balm of all care. 
 
 I hold till my tir'd ell)ows ache ; 
 
 I gaze till my eye-sight swims round — 
 Some short relaxation to take, 
 
 I sticks my rod into the ground. 
 
 While I ponder on credit and cash. 
 And the joys of next settling day. 
 
 The rod tumbles in with a splash ! 
 And sails on the current away ! 
 
 Distracted I stand on the bank. 
 
 To the puntman I bawl out my woe — 
 
 O, rescue my rod ere it sink. 
 
 Why move so confoundedly slow.
 
 ON ANGLING. 23 
 
 No fond interrogative wish 
 
 I breath to each watery god : 
 Mv new rod has caught a fine fish, 
 
 But, ah ! who will catch my new rod. 
 
 Brimer Crack, 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 There's a sultry cloud, that now doth shroud 
 
 The soft declining sun ; 
 There a rippling stream, on which her beam 
 
 Shall fall, ere his course be run. 
 Ere that clouud be past, or that sun shall set. 
 We must seek that wave with our fly and net. 
 
 Nor is it not when the toil-Avorn men 
 
 Hie to their noontide meal 
 That our flies should quest the water's breast, 
 
 Or we wind our fish-strained reel : 
 But 'tis when the shades of evening rise. 
 That the angler casts his curious flies. 
 
 Then we'lt quaff" this ale, and we'll tell a tale, 
 
 And then hie to the Avon's side ; 
 And the ploughman's glee, adown the lea. 
 
 Is our signal to court the tide ; 
 Nay, though night may come ere we cease to toil. 
 Go our patience well, we will Af in our spoil.
 
 24 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE TURBOT. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 Lorii Endless walking to the Hall, 
 
 8H\r a fine Turbot on a stall. 
 
 "How much d'ye ask, friend, for this fisli ? " 
 
 'Two guineas, Sir." — "Two guineas ! pish ! " 
 
 He paused he thouglit, "Two guineas ! zounds ! " 
 
 "Few fish to-day, Sir" — "Come take pounds. 
 
 Send it quick to Bedford-square, 
 
 Here's a pound note ; — now mind when there, 
 
 Ask for one pound, and say that's all — 
 
 My Lady's economical." 
 
 The fish was sent, my Lady thought it 
 
 Superfluous, but — my Lord had bought it. 
 
 She paid one pound and cried — "O drat it ! " 
 
 Yet could not think the fish dear at it. 
 
 A knock announces Lady Tatter, 
 
 Come for an hour to sit and clatter ; 
 
 At length — "My darling Lady E. 
 
 I'm so distress'd — you know Lord T. 
 
 Can't dine without fish, and 'tis funny. 
 
 There's none to-day for love or money." 
 
 "Bless us," cried Lady E. "two hours 
 
 A50, a Turbot came, 'tis your's, ^ 
 
 ( paid but thirty shillings for it. 
 
 You'd say 'twas dirt cheap, if you saw it." 
 
 The bargain struck — cash paid — fish gone — 
 
 Mv Lord at dinner came anon ; 
 
 He stared to see my Lady smile, 
 
 'Twas what he had not seen some while ; 
 
 There was hash'd beef, and leeks a bocit full.
 
 ON ANGLING. 25 
 
 But Turbot none — my Lord look'd doubtful — 
 
 "My dear ! — I think — is no fish come ? " 
 
 "There is love — leave the room, John — mum — 
 
 I sold the fish, you silly man, 
 
 I make a bargain when I can ; 
 
 The fish which cost us shillings twenty, 
 
 I sold for thirty to content ye — 
 
 For one pound ten to Lady Tatter, 
 
 Lord ! how you stare, why, what's the matter .'" 
 
 My Lord stared wide with both his eyes, 
 Down knife and fork dropt with surprise ; 
 "For one pound ten to Lady Tatter! 
 If she was fiat, ma'am, you were flatter ; 
 Two pounds the Turbot cost — 'tis true. 
 One pound / paid, and one pound you." 
 
 '■Two pounds ! Good Heavens ! Why tlien sav 
 It cost but one pound ?" — "Nay, ma'am, nay, 
 I said not so, said nought about it ; 
 So, madam, you were free to doubt it." 
 "Two pounds ! Good Heavens ! Why wlio could 
 doubt 
 
 That the fish cost what I laid out ? 
 
 'Twould have been madness (you may rate) 
 In such a case to hesitate." 
 
 "'Tis never madness," he replies, 
 
 "To donbt. I doubt my very eyes. 
 
 Had you but doubted tiie prime cost. 
 
 Ten shillinffs would not liave been hmt. 
 
 Tho' yon and all the world may rate. 
 
 You see His best lo Ifsilatey
 
 •26 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 STANZES IRREGULIERS, 
 TO ]\IR IZAAK WALTON, BY C. COTTON. 
 
 Farewell, thou busy world, and may 
 We never meet again ; 
 Here I can eat, and sleep and pray, 
 And do more good in one short day 
 Tlian he who his wliole age out-wears 
 Upon the most conspicuous tlieatres. 
 Where nought but vanity and vice appears. 
 
 Good God ! how swe et are all things here. 
 How beautiful the fields appear. 
 
 How cleanly do we feed and lie, 
 Lord ! what good hours do we keep, 
 How quietly we sleep. 
 
 What peace, what unanimity, 
 How^ innocent from the lewd fashion, 
 Is all our business, all our recreation. 
 
 Oh, how happy here's our leisure. 
 
 Oh, how innocent our pleasure, 
 
 O ye valleys, O ye mountains, 
 
 O ye groves, and crystal fountains,^ 
 
 How I love, at liberty, 
 
 By turns to come and visit ye. 
 
 Dear Solitude, the soul's best friend. 
 That man acquainted with himself dost make, 
 And all his Maker's wonders to intend. 
 
 With thee I here converse at will. 
 And wyuld be glad to do so still, 
 I'or it is thou alone that'st keep the soul awake.
 
 ON ANGLING. 27 
 
 How calm and quiet a delight 
 
 It is, alone, 
 To read and meditate and write, 
 
 Bj' none offended, and offending none, 
 To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's ease. 
 And pleasing a man's self, none other to displease. 
 
 my beloved nymph, fair Dove, 
 Princess of rivers, how I love 
 
 Upon thy flowery banks to lie. 
 And view thy silver stream, 
 When gilded by a summer's beam ; 
 And in it all thy wanton fry. 
 Playing at liberty. 
 And with my angle, upon them 
 The all of treachery 
 
 1 ever learn'd, industriously to try. 
 
 Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show. 
 The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po, 
 The IMaese, the Danube, and the Rhine 
 Are puddle water all compared with thine ; 
 And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are 
 With thine, much purer, to compare ; 
 The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine 
 Are both too mean. 
 
 Beloved Dove, with thee 
 
 To vie priority ; 
 Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoin'd, submit, 
 And lay their trophies at thy silver feet. 
 O my beloved rocks, that rise 
 To awe the earth and brave the skies,
 
 2(? SONGS, ETC. 
 
 From some aspiring mountain's crown. 
 
 How jlearly do I love, 
 Giddy with pleasure, to look down ; 
 And, from the vales, to view the noble heights above. 
 () my beloved caves, from dog -star's heat. 
 And all anxieties, my safe retreat ; 
 What safety, privacy, what true delight, 
 In the artificial night 
 Your gloomy entrails makes. 
 Have I taken, do I take ; 
 How oft, when grief has made me fly. 
 To hide me from society. 
 E'en of my dearest friends, have I, 
 
 In your recesses' friendly shade, 
 All my sorrows open laid. 
 And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy- 
 Lord ! I would men let me alone. 
 What an over-happy one 
 
 Should 1 think myself to be ; 
 Might I in this desert place, 
 (Which most men in discourse disgrace,) 
 
 Live but undisturb'd and free ; 
 Here, in this despised recess, 
 
 Would I, maugre winter's cold. 
 And the summer's Morst excess. 
 Try to live out to sixty full years old ; 
 And, all the while, 
 
 Without an envious eye 
 On any thriving under fortune's smile. 
 Contented live, and then contented die.
 
 ON ANGLING. ^' 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Drear night has dropped her sable reil 
 
 As waking from a dream ; 
 Cold Phoebus slowly sheds liis rays 
 
 O'er yonder flowing stream. 
 All nature hushed, no sound disturbs, 
 No breeze o'er vale or hill ; 
 
 No waking bird. 
 
 No sound is heard, 
 
 Save this my babbling rill. 
 
 Come forth my rod, I quick perceive. 
 
 With ever watchful eyes. 
 Amidst the still of yonder rill, 
 
 A bonnie troutling i-ise. 
 'Tis May, I choose the sombre wing, 
 T'will tempt his eager eye ; 
 
 By skill, and luck 
 
 Hurrah he's struck ! 
 
 He takes my well cast fly 
 
 He darts away ; my reel runs ofl^". 
 
 Around, around it goes, 
 I give him line, he carries off, 
 
 BJy pulse excited glows. 
 What sport can eijual joys like this! 
 jMy rod now bends in two, 
 
 Will such a hook. 
 
 Withstand the brook ? 
 
 Will this my line prove true r
 
 30 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 'Now, now, 'tis out, 'tis full at strain, 
 
 I fear t'will scarcely stand ; 
 The topmast joint is bent in twain, 
 
 It shakes my nervous hand ; 
 
 It slackens now, he's tired out, 
 
 I wind my well tried reel, 
 
 And gently strain 
 
 My line again. 
 
 Till trouty's strength I feel. 
 
 T then let out, again I wind-, 
 I give Brown speckles play, 
 
 T draw him near, I have him clear, 
 Whoo ! crack, he's off, away, 
 
 I draw his head above the flood, 
 I check by this his breath, 
 I quickly get 
 My landing net. 
 To bear him to his death. 
 
 Great Izaak Walton ne'er was sure. 
 That king of rod and fly. 
 
 He could not say he'd won the day, 
 Then surely how could I ? 
 
 Off, off, he flies the line won't bear ; 
 My tackle rudely torn ; 
 So I return 
 Across the bourne. 
 Quite humble and forlorn.
 
 ON ANGLINGf. 31 
 
 MORAL. 
 Then, Pundants wise, pray dont despise 
 The humble writer's wish. 
 Who fain would shew "Dont count, you know^ 
 Until you've caught your fish." 
 
 For if you do your reckoning false. 
 
 Your calculation's out, 
 Upon the bank, you'll stand quite blank. 
 
 Outwitted by a trout. 
 
 PISCATORY REMISCENCES. 
 
 The morning looked grey — though a little suspicious. 
 We mustered at three in the Royal Hotel ; * 
 
 The coffee, and tea, and the eggs were delicious : 
 There was roast beef and bacon, and brandy as well. 
 
 The breakfast discussed, and the trappings all ready. 
 Our riasks full of spirits — >our hearts full of glee ; 
 
 The horses quite fresh, and the driver quite steady. 
 For care or for canker we cared not a Hea. 
 
 As we roll'd up the street, where sonje sly ones lay snor- 
 We sounded our bugle and gave a huzza ; H'^s^ 
 
 Yet still on their pillows their noses lay boring, 
 While fast through the Scotchgate we sped on our way. 
 
 '■''Alias Kings's Arms, BerMick-on-Tweed.
 
 S2 SOKGS, ETC. 
 
 The lark dried her wings in the breeze of the morning, 
 The blackbird and thrush welcomed in the new day ; 
 
 The sun's golden rays all the hills now adorning, 
 Give life to the landscape so fresh and so gay. 
 
 One hour brought us up to the first*place of baiting. 
 
 New milk and old whisky made old folks look young. 
 And the young ones of fishing and fish fell a-prating ; 
 
 And filled all their baskets l(»ng ere they begiin. 
 
 Another hour brought us close up to the river, 
 Which rolled in brotvn i'ja/enc^oMr besprinkl'd with fouiH,. 
 
 When one and all cried out — "My eye did you ever ! 
 What, now, would they think if they saw this at home?' 
 
 And soon the next hour flew away as we mounted 
 The smooth hilly road, amongst briers and broom ; 
 
 No longer black sheep, carts, or donkeys we counted, 
 But lay at our ease in the mountain's perfume. 
 
 And now we are fixing our rods and our tackles ; 
 
 Our books well provided with all kinds of flies — 
 "Professors," "cow-doctors," "blue duns," and "red 
 hackles" — 
 
 The wind in onr backs and the sun in our eyes. 
 
 Tlien so<in we found out that our sport would be ample, 
 With eye and hand ready to hook and to hold ; 
 
 Tlie very first throw we had two for a sample. 
 As fine as fresh herring?*, and yellow as gold.
 
 ON ANGLING. 33 
 
 'Twere tiresome to tell all the feats of our fishing, 
 We all filled our baskets, and could have filled more ; 
 
 And if its the weight for to know you'll be wishing. 
 Avoir du poise pounds each could reckon a^ ! 
 
 The Abbey St. Bathan's lay close now before us, — 
 A welcome retreat both for sinner and saint. 
 
 Our dinner well cooked at the inn, did restore us 
 To freshness and vigour — from weary and faint. 
 
 And soon we began to get merry and chatty — 
 Away, without notice, the time quickly flew, 
 
 As we quaffed the good cheer of our landlady Mattie, — 
 Strong ale, bottled porter, and fine mountain detv. 
 
 Should any one wish to know about Mattie, — 
 
 Sly winks and cross questions may as well be spared ; 
 
 Some said she was good, and some said she was 
 
 But now she lies low in St. Bathan's kirkyard. 
 
 Yes ! Mattie's away, and we hope she is happy ; 
 
 She had a sma' failin', for which we feel — 
 To keep out the cauld she would take a wee drappie, 
 
 Get fou as a fiddler, and whomil the creel ! 
 
 But, sooner or later, all things have an ending. 
 
 And so must this rhyme — so, we wish you good night » 
 Our compliments to all our friends we are sending ; 
 We got home at tMclve, and found cverijthivg right, 
 hme, 1847, 
 I)
 
 34 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 BALLAD TO A FISH OF THE BROOK. 
 
 Why flyest thou away with fear ? 
 Trust me there's nought of danger near ; 
 
 I have no wicked hook. 
 All covered with a snaring baite, 
 Alas ! to tempt thee to thy fate. 
 
 And drag thee from thy brook. 
 
 Oh, harmless tenant of the flood, 
 I do not wish to spill thy blood ; 
 
 For nature unto thee 
 Perchance has given a tender wife, 
 And children dear, to charm thy life, 
 
 As she has done to me. 
 
 Enjoy thy stream, oh, harmless fish. 
 And when an angler for his dish. 
 
 Though gluttony's vile sin. 
 Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, 
 God give thee strength. Oh, gentle trout. 
 
 To pull the rascal in. 
 
 Peter Pindar.
 
 ON ANGLING, 35 
 
 ANGLER'S DUET. 
 
 Anxious by the gliding stream, 
 See the steady angler watch. 
 Trying every wily scheme. 
 The heedless finny tribe to catch : 
 Hush ! hush ! 
 
 I've a nibble. 
 Strike, strike. 
 Play it, play it. 
 
 Not a breath. 
 
 Still as death. 
 
 Now take heed ; 
 
 Pshaw, 'tis a weed. 
 
 Zounds, 'tis a weed ! 
 
 Still with patience, on shore. 
 
 They clear the line, and try once more : 
 
 And thus they toil from morn till night, 
 
 But when they get — 
 
 Get what ? 
 
 A bite. 
 O ! the joys of angling, O the joys of angling, 
 Now the drizzling rains descend. 
 Now the sheltering tree they court. 
 Still their watchful looks they bend ; 
 Rain and clouds ensure them sport. 
 Hush ! hush ! 
 
 There's a bite. 
 We shall have rare sport to-night ; 
 How it tugs ; 
 
 It's a pike.
 
 86 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Play him, play him, 
 
 He weakens. 
 
 Strike ! 
 
 But ere they get it to the shore. 
 
 He snaps the line, they're baulk'd once more ; 
 
 Then home they go, the tale is told. 
 
 That they have caught — 
 
 Caught what ? 
 
 A cold ! 
 O ! the joys of angling ; O the joys of angling. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Fill'd with the feasts the sun or shower betrays. 
 With insect-food, that falls 'neath Phoebus' blaze. 
 The glutted trout, all dainty grown, refuse 
 The nice device ; or with suspicion views : 
 Except, perchance, when night her curtain throws 
 O'er the dim vale, and husbandman's repose, 
 Some lated angler tries the shrouded deep. 
 Or drops his fly, where noisy currents sweep ; 
 Or the red worm twin'd round the well prov'd hook. 
 In the tree-shadow'd depth of bubbling brook. 
 Yet other dwellers in the watery way. 
 Less cunning grown, beccne an easier prey ; 
 The silvpry dace, disporting in the sun. 
 Darting at gilded palmer, is undone : 
 And grayling, roach, the perch, the gudgeon, beam, 
 Reward the skill of us who woo the stream.
 
 ON ANGLING. 37 
 
 THE ANGLER'S HOME. 
 
 Tune. — "My native Highland Home." 
 
 Should Fortune bless with halcyon scenes 
 
 My days in future life. 
 And give me, Mary, the dear means 
 
 To make thee, love, a wife ; 
 I'd dwell where peaceful streamlets stray. 
 
 Or through the meadows roam. 
 And view thy smiles for ever play 
 Around the angler's home. 
 
 Then go with me and share my cot 
 
 No dangers round it foam ; 
 The world and trouble are forgot 
 With thee, and this our home. 
 
 I'd rather win the river's prize 
 
 Than scenes of gay resort ; 
 To me this trout of varied dyes 
 
 Is richer than a court. 
 Oh, and if oft my basket's lined 
 
 With spoils my sport has won ; 
 What joy thy partial smiles to find, 
 Pure as the setting sun. 
 
 Then, Mary, come, and share my cot. 
 
 No dangers round it foam ; 
 Here, all troubles are forgot, 
 Here in the angler's home.
 
 38 SONGy, ETC. 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 Tlie early son is rising fair and bright ; 
 
 x\nd dancing lightly on each spangled spray. 
 The pearl-drops glisten in the dewy light 
 
 That bathes in fragrant balm the morn of May. 
 
 The thick white mists are spreading far and fast. 
 Beneath the glowing orb's absorbing beam. 
 
 To swell with showers the light clouds floating past. 
 Predicting glorious sport in pool and stream. 
 
 Oh ! what a gush of joy o'erwhelms the soul, 
 When Nature pours her matin song of praise ; 
 
 What waves of sweet, sad visions round us roll ; 
 What deep and thrilling dreams the mind amase I 
 
 The gladsome heart bounds joyous, warm, and free. 
 And throbs with raptu- in the morning breeze. 
 
 Which, fraught with mild and mystic melody. 
 
 Comes fresh and frisking o^ev the whispering trees. 
 
 Arise thou sluggard ! Hark ! The lark on high, . 
 
 His wild entrancing wood-note bravely rings ; 
 He revels joyous in the morning sky. 
 
 And soars away, and still, in soaring, signs. 
 
 What frantic rapture does his strains prolong ; 
 
 No chilling, passionless performer he ; 
 His little soul is steeped in floods of song, 
 
 And pours its joy in that mad ecstacy.
 
 ON ANGLING, 39 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, those notes are not for thee ; 
 
 They cannot drown thy deep and drowsy snore ; . 
 No joy for thee, in mountain, stream, or lea ; 
 
 Thou lov'st thy bed than morning ramble more. 
 
 For thee, the angler's is a vulgar art ; 
 
 His simple pleasure earn thy ready sneer ; 
 Well, well, in quiet peace at least we'll part, — 
 
 My songs aflFects not uncongenial ear. 
 
 But thou, my friend, with kindred feelings rife. 
 Wilt join the social converse grave or gay : 
 
 Laugh at the passing joke, or share the strife. 
 When smart discussions loftier themes display. 
 
 Come, haste ^way ; and where the clear streams glide. 
 Armed with the tapering line, and well sprung rod. 
 
 Muse on the moral of their lapsing tide. 
 Or hold dread converse with a present God. 
 
 Ah ! who can tell the holy thoughts that crowd, 
 Thick o'er the heart when all around is still. 
 
 When nothing moves but shade of passing cloud. 
 And nought is heard but hum of yonder mill. 
 
 Give me, Great Father, give nie strength and health, 
 
 A liberal heart, affections kind and free ; 
 My rod — my line — be these my pride, my wealth ! 
 They yield me present joys — they draw my soul to 
 Thee. 
 
 Palmer Hacklk.
 
 40 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE. 
 
 Old Winter is gone, and young Spring now conies trap- 
 ping ; 
 
 Sweet flowers are springing wherever she treads. 
 While the bee, hovering o'er them, keeps humming and 
 sipping, 
 
 And birds sing her welcome in woodlands and meads 
 The snaw-wreath no more on the hill-side is lying ; 
 
 The leaf-buds are bursting, bright green, on each tree. 
 Ho, anglers, arouse ye, the streams are worth trying, 
 
 Fit your rods and away to the fishing with me. 
 
 Haste away, haste away, for the south wind is blowing, 
 And rippling so gently the face of the stream, 
 
 Which neither too full nor too fine yet is flowing. 
 Now clouded, now bright with a sun-shinny gleam. 
 
 At the foot of the fall, where the bright trouts are leap- 
 ing. 
 In the stream where the current is rapid and strong, 
 
 Or just by the bank where the skeggers seem sleeping, 
 They throw your fly light, and you cannot throw 
 wrong. 
 
 There's a joy in the chase, over hedge and ditch flying, 
 
 'Tis pleasing to bring down the grouse on the fell. 
 The partridge to bag, through the low stubble trying. 
 
 The pheasant to shoot as he flies through the dell. 
 But what are such joys to the pleasure of straying 
 
 By the side of a stream, a long line throwing free, 
 The salmon and ti'out with a neat fly betraying ? — 
 
 Fit your rods, and away to the fishing with me.
 
 ON ANGLING. 4l 
 
 To awaken the milk-maid, the cock is yet crowing, — 
 
 She was out late last night, with young Hodge at 
 the fair — 
 To be milked yet the cows in the loaning are lowing, 
 
 We'll be at our sports ere young Nelly be there. 
 The weather is prime, and the stream in good order ; 
 
 Arouse ye, then, angler^ ! wherever you be, — 
 In Scotland, in Ireland, in Wales, on the Border, — 
 
 Fit your rods, and away to the fishing with me. 
 
 Stephen Oliver. 1834 
 
 THE ANGLER'S PROGRESS. 
 
 When I was a mere school-boy, 
 
 Ere yet I'd learn 'd my book, 
 I felt a wish for angling 
 
 In every little brook : 
 With ozier-rod, some thread for line, 
 
 A crooked pin for hook. 
 And thus equlpp'd I angled 
 
 In every little brook. 
 
 Of Pricklebacks and Minnows 
 
 Each day I caught a store. 
 With Stone Loaches and Miller's Thumbs, 
 
 Those l)rooks afford no more ; 
 And thus the little Angler, 
 
 With crooked pin for hook. 
 Would shun each noisy wrangler. 
 
 To fish tlic niurni'rin<{ Itroolv.
 
 42 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Then next 1 bought some farthing hooks, 
 
 And eke a horse-hair line, 
 A hazel rod with whalebone top. 
 
 My playmates to outshine ; 
 With which I soon aspir'd 
 
 To angle with a float. 
 And when I could not fish from shore, 
 
 I angled from a boat. 
 
 Then Roach and Dace and Bleak I took. 
 
 And Gudgeons without end. 
 And now and then a Perch I'd hook. 
 
 Which made my rod to bend ; 
 And thus the little Angler, 
 
 Pleas'd with his line and hook, 
 Would shun each noisy wrangler, 
 
 To fish the murm'ring brook. 
 
 Bream, Chub, and Barbel next I sought. 
 
 Their various haunts I tried. 
 With scour'd worms, greaves, cheese and paste, 
 
 And various baits beside ; 
 With hooks of Kirby bend, (well chose,) 
 
 And gut that's round and fine. 
 And so by gradations I rose, 
 
 To fish with running line. 
 
 A multiplying-winch I bought. 
 
 Wherewith my skill to try 
 And so expert myself I thought, 
 
 Few with me noAV could vie.
 
 ON ANGLING. 43 
 
 And thus the little Angler, 
 
 With rod and line and hook. 
 Would shun each noisy wrangler. 
 
 To fish the murm'ring brook. 
 
 My mind on Trolling now intent. 
 
 With live or dead snap hook, 
 And seldom to the river went. 
 
 But Pike or Jack I took : 
 Near banks of bulrush, sedge, and reed, 
 
 (A dark and windy day,) 
 And if the Pike were on the feed, 
 
 I rarely miss'd my prey. 
 
 If baits are fresh and proper size, 
 
 No matter what's the sort. 
 At Gudgeon, Roach, or Dace they'll rise ; 
 
 With all my turns I've sport. 
 So now a dext'rous Angler, 
 
 With rod and line and hook, 
 I shun each noisy wrangler. 
 
 To fish the murm'ring brook. 
 
 And now to cast a flyjine well 
 
 Became my chiefest wish, 
 I strove each sportsman to excel. 
 
 And cheat the nimble fish ; 
 Now Trout and Grayling I might kill, 
 
 (If gloon)y was the day,) 
 And salmon, also, at my will. 
 
 Became an easier prey.
 
 44 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Now flies and palmers I would dress, 
 
 Aquatic insects too, 
 And all their various seasons guess ; 
 
 Their uses well I know. 
 So now the perfect Angler, 
 
 With rod and line and hook, 
 I shun each noisy wrangler. 
 
 To fish the murm'ring brook. 
 
 Songs of the Chase. 
 
 THE TENCH OF THORNVILLE HOUSE 
 
 O ! the marvellous 
 
 At Thornvile House, 
 We read of feats in plenty ; 
 
 Where with long bow. 
 
 They hit, I trow. 
 Full nineteen shots in twenty. 
 
 Their fame to fix, 
 
 'Midst other tricks. 
 In which they so delight. Sir ; 
 
 These blabes, prey know. 
 
 The hatchet throw. 
 Till it is out of sight, Sir.
 
 ON ANGLING. 45 
 
 Of beast and bird, 
 
 Enough we've heard, 
 By crack as loud as thunder ; 
 
 So now they dish 
 
 A monster Fish, 
 For those that bite at wonders. 
 
 The sullion wench 
 
 Did catch a Tench, 
 Fatter than Berkshire hogs, Sir, 
 
 Which, pretty soul. 
 
 Had made his hole 
 Snug shelt'd by some logs, Sir. 
 
 Sans water He 
 
 Had liv'd, d'ye see, 
 Beneath these roots of wood, Sir, 
 
 And there, alack ! 
 
 Flat on his back. 
 Had lain since Noah's flood. Sir. 
 
 Now he's in stew. 
 
 For public ^out. 
 And fed with lettuce-coss. Sir, 
 
 In hopes the town 
 
 Will gulp him down. 
 With good humbugging sauce, Sir. 
 
 NiM,
 
 46 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER AND HIS FLOAT. 
 
 Far away from the noise and deceptions of trade. 
 Through the rude winding paths by simplicity made, 
 I take me at morn, as the day star appears. 
 And the lark, from above, with his song sweetly 
 
 cheers ; 
 By the svvift winding Lea, full of rapture I tread, 
 On the gay painted carpets kind Nature has spread. 
 
 As my float down the current goes dancing along, 
 I muse with my pastime ; and this is my song — 
 "That bright coloured object, I follow so free, 
 Reminds me of things once familiar to me ; 
 So dances the frail one fond youth to invite. 
 Who forgetting the hook is the gudgeon to bite. 
 
 Like my float is false friendship, it flatters the eye. 
 Till the hook of deceit gives permission to lie; 
 Like a float is the law tribe, they tempt to persue, 
 And not like my bait inviting to ensnare. 
 Then every piscator this tale shall report. 
 An angler is gone to Elysium for sport." 
 
 ICHTUS.
 
 ON ANGLING. 47 
 
 THE ANGLER'S WAND. 
 
 How oft times with my rod in hand, 
 
 In wandering by the stream, 
 I've likne'd the angler's magic wand 
 
 To life's deceptive dream. 
 
 The sky, perchance, looks fair and bright. 
 
 The breeze curls on the brook, 
 The waters ting'd to please the sight. 
 
 Trout waiting for the hook. 
 
 We plunge and strive from spot to spot. 
 
 But not a fish will rise — 
 In wonderment at our ill-luck, 
 
 Turn up our wistful eyes. 
 
 In daily life the same we see, 
 
 When hope mounts on the wing ; 
 
 Our means to ends may not agree. 
 And grief from labour spring. 
 
 Again, sometimes, the day is sour. 
 
 And darkened is the sky ; 
 Fair sport seems not within our power, 
 
 Though artful be our flies. 
 
 But here, again, at fault we are, 
 
 Success attends our skill, 
 And fish in scores come wide and far. 
 
 Our fisliinc crep] to fill.
 
 -18 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Ill life's career the same we sec, 
 When hope flags in the rear. 
 
 And dark's the shade of destiny 
 When our success is near. 
 
 A moral, too, your line may point. 
 When tangl'd is the hair ; 
 Let patience with her oil annoint, 
 
 'Twill save you from despair. 
 
 The same in life when ills assail, 
 Perplex'd with mischiefs rank. 
 
 Patience and skill will seldom fail 
 To unloose the knotted hank.
 
 ON ANGLING. 49 
 
 ROBIN GREY. 
 
 Robin Grey, an Angler, 
 
 Liv'd by Eden water ; 
 And always took the rod. 
 
 When aught was the matter, 
 By sound calculation. 
 
 No error could betray. 
 That with the rod and creel, 
 
 Distress it flew away. 
 
 In olden times the Rod, 
 
 Its healing powers made known. 
 Among the wand'ring tribes. 
 
 Laid under Heaven's frown ; 
 They look'd to it, and liv'd, 
 
 What'er their ills might be ; 
 It brought the healing balm. 
 
 And banish'd misery. 
 
 Ills in a like degree, 
 
 The angler's rod, it soothes. 
 The jaring and the sad. 
 
 It brightens and it smooths ; 
 And when his mind commun'd 
 
 With nature's rich display ; 
 This always checr'd the heart 
 
 Of honest Robin Grey. 
 
 His rod prov'd the emblem. 
 Of pleasure and delight ; 
 He smil'd on it by day, 
 
 And dreamt of it by night ;
 
 c 
 
 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 What'er the ills of life, 
 It chassed them away. 
 
 Nor vuffl'd long the brow. 
 Of honest Robin Grey. 
 
 Let anglers, then, rejoice. 
 
 At such a cheerful creed ; 
 And take the rod and line 
 
 When'ere they are in need ; 
 And let them prove a balm. 
 
 From Spring, to life's decay. 
 And an example take. 
 
 From honest Robin Grey. 
 
 TWO OF A TRADE. 
 
 A fisherman one morn display'd 
 
 Upon the Steine his net ; 
 Corinna could not promenade, 
 
 And 'gan to fume and fret. 
 
 The fisher cried, give o'er the spleen, 
 
 We both are in one line ; 
 Ydii spread your net upon the Steine, 
 
 Why may not I spread mine ? 
 
 Two of a trade can ne'er agree, 
 'Tis that which makes you sore ; 
 
 I fish for Hat fish in the sea. 
 And you upon the shore.
 
 ON ANGLING. 5 J 
 
 THE ANGLER'S DISTRESS. 
 
 I've lost my rod, my flies, and knife, 
 
 Sav'd only fish and purse ; 
 Yet when I think of human life, 
 
 Thank Heaven it is no worse. 
 
 My friend was sickly, poor, and old, 
 Was peevish, blind, and crippled ; 
 
 My wife was ugly and a scold, 
 I rather think she tippled. 
 
 My rod was plastic, straight, and true, 
 
 In angling gave me pleasure ; 
 I shouldn't care for t'other too. 
 If I had sav'd this treasure. 
 AXMINSTER. I8i0. 
 
 ANGLING FELICITY. 
 To angle I went to the drains 
 
 Which runs from the north to the south, 
 I caught a fine pike for my pains, 
 
 I felt my poor thumb in his mouth. 
 
 I stamp'd, and I roar'd, and there can)e 
 A nymph who releas'd me from pain, 
 
 I gladly relinquish'd my game. 
 And never have angled again.
 
 52 SONGS; ETC. 
 
 THE INVITATION, 
 The rising sun's resplendent beam; 
 
 Now gild the orient sky ; 
 Up, angler, from thy airy dreams, 
 
 And to the streamlet hie. 
 
 Proud chanticleer has left his shed, 
 
 To hail the dawning day ; 
 The lark has left his mossy bed, 
 
 To chant his matin lay. 
 
 The lowing herd upon the hill, 
 
 The lambs upon the lea, 
 The happy plough-boy's whistle shrill. 
 
 The humming of the bee ; 
 
 The music of the budding grove. 
 The rippling of the stream. 
 
 The milk maid's simple song of love. 
 The tinkling of the team. 
 
 '» 
 
 All in one glorious swell unite, 
 
 Of harmony divine ; 
 To hail the rod and tackling light. 
 
 Their melody combine. 
 
 While sunk in sleep the sluggard steams, 
 
 Like hog within the stye ; 
 Up, angler, from thy airy dreams, 
 
 And to the streamlet hie.
 
 ON ANGLING. OS 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Hark ! the warbling birds around. 
 
 Hail the glad return of spring ; 
 Nets, that arching guard the ground, 
 
 Far aloof keeps every sting. 
 Once again the budding grove 
 
 With hawthorn's bloom is gay ; 
 Let us fish, and let us rove, 
 
 Swiftly Hies the spring away. 
 
 Flowers again the garden grace. 
 
 Brilliant are the hue we see, 
 Blyth again the stream we trace. 
 
 On thy charming banks, O Dee ! 
 Ere the spring deserts the grove. 
 
 We may all in death decay, 
 Let us fish then, let us rove, 
 
 Swiftly flies the spring away. 
 
 Sol's bright eye illumes the bower, 
 
 Round our feet the daisies grow, 
 Mixt with every painted flower. 
 
 Earth's enchanting face can show. 
 Anglers, then, the hour improve, 
 
 Let the gloomy hearth be gay ; 
 Let us fish, and let us rove. 
 
 Swiftly flies the spring away. 
 
 Like the maids, whose beauties clear, 
 Gems of various hues adorn, 
 
 Lillies mixt with roses here. 
 
 Glisten with the the gems of morn.
 
 54 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Think not time will ne'er remove 
 Beauties which will soon decay 
 
 Let us wield the rod, and rove, 
 Swiftly flies the spring away. 
 
 Rising at the morning hour, 
 
 Dew distilling clouds we see. 
 And the gale around the bower 
 
 Sweeps along the charming Dee. 
 Let not care the mind remove 
 
 From the joys that round us play 
 Let us throw the rod, and rove. 
 
 Swiftly flies the spring away. 
 Chester. 1839. 
 
 SONG OF THE ANGLER. 
 
 BY FRANCIS B. THOMPSON, 
 
 Give me the babbling brook that plays. 
 
 Sweet music to the ear, 
 And tempts us there to spend our days 
 All through the livelong year, 
 
 With Creel, and Rod and Line, 
 With Creel, and Rod, and Line, 
 With Creel, and Rod, and Line, 
 All through the livelong year.
 
 Oisr ANGLING- 55 
 
 Grive me the joys the Angler feels — 
 
 Let others know dull care ; 
 Give me the bait that surely kills — 
 Let others better fare. 
 
 So gallantly and fine, 
 So gallantly and fine, 
 So gallantly and fine. 
 Let others better fare. 
 
 I care not for their bustling sports — 
 
 Though I do not decry — 
 To them I leave their active fortes, 
 Give me with rod to try 
 
 This gentle sport of mine. 
 This gentle sport of mine. 
 This gentle sport of mine, 
 Give me with Rod to try. 
 
 Then here I raise the cheerful glass 
 
 To toast all Brother Bobs : 
 May Time to them right quickly pass. 
 With fun stuck in their nobs, 
 
 So happy and so fine, 
 So happy and so fine. 
 So happy and so fine. 
 With fun stuck in their nobs.
 
 56 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 SAINT PATRICK. 
 
 No doubt, St. Patrick was an Angler 
 
 Of credit and renown. Sir, 
 And many a shining trout he caught, 
 
 Ere he built Dublin town. Sir. 
 Old story says, (it tells no lies) 
 
 He fish'd with bait and line. Sir, 
 * At every throw he had a bite, 
 
 Which tugg'd and shook the twine. Sir, 
 
 In troubled streams he lov'd to fish. 
 
 Then salmon could not see. Sir, 
 The trout, and eels, and also pike. 
 
 Were under this decree, Sir, 
 And this, perhaps, may solve a point. 
 
 With other learn'd matters. Sir, 
 Why Irishmen still love to fish 
 
 Among troubled waters. Sir. 
 
 Some likewise say, and even sware. 
 
 He was a godly saint. Sir, 
 And made "loose fish" for all the land, 
 
 And trout as red as paint, Sir. 
 And as a relic of his power. 
 
 It was his ardent wish. Sir, 
 That dear old Erin should always have, 
 
 A number of "odd fish". Sir. 
 
 Trinity College, Dublin, 1810.
 
 ON ANGLING, 57 
 
 SONG. 
 
 From town I walk'd to take the air, 
 Shun smoke and noise of coaches ; 
 
 I saw a lovely damsel fair. 
 Angling for dace and roaches. 
 
 Close by a brook, with line and hook, 
 
 Which curiously was baited. 
 Attentively the maid did look. 
 
 While for a bite she waited. 
 
 Struck with her charms, I nearer drew. 
 
 To view the lovely creature ; 
 The line into the brook she threw. 
 
 But Oh ! with such good natuie. 
 
 When me this charming girl espied. 
 
 She seem'd intimidated ; 
 Don't be afraid, sweet maid, I cried, 
 
 Cupid your hook has baited. 
 
 My hand and heart, sweet nymph, are thine, 
 
 If you will but accept them ; 
 And I here to thee resign. 
 
 But die if you reject me. 
 
 This, and much more, to her I said ; 
 
 She replied, she must away ; 
 Her friends would think too long she staid. 
 
 Then sweetly smil'd, and bid good-day.
 
 58 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 I soon gain'd hers, and friends consent, 
 That Delia should be my bride ; 
 
 In a few months to church we went. 
 And the happy knot was tied. 
 
 Now pass my days in sweet content, 
 Blest with her fond embraces ; 
 
 And Delia owns she does not repent. 
 Angling for roach and daces. 
 
 OUT OF FISHING. 
 Last night, Tom Snooks, says he to me. 
 If you've a mind some fun to see, 
 I'll take you out with two or three. 
 
 Who mean to go a fishing. 
 So get a rod, a can, and bait. 
 We start from town precise at eight. 
 Then mind friend Muggs you ar'nt too late 
 
 To go with us a fishing. 
 Says I, I will ; so up I goes 
 To Mr Sprout, with my best clothes. 
 And borrow'd what you may suppose, 
 
 To rig me out for fishing. 
 
 With rods and lines and bait, a store. 
 
 Enough for half-a-dozen more, 
 
 I never shall forget the bore 
 
 Of going out a fishing.
 
 ON ANGLING. 59 
 
 I warning took, and on a rail 
 I, like the bird in nursery tale. 
 What wagged about his little tail, 
 Perch'd nie up for fishing. 
 
 With rods and lines, &c. 
 
 But, sad mischance, the rail was old, 
 It broke, and down the bank I roll'd — 
 Look here ! I'm sure I shall catch cold, 
 
 From going out a fishing. 
 The mud was soft, my legs are thin, 
 And farther I kept sinking in, 
 Untill I thought 'twould reach my chin, 
 
 When we went out a fishing. 
 At last says I, this will not suit ; 
 So out I bawls, when Muggs, the brute. 
 He lugg'd me out, but left my boot. 
 
 Where I had been a fishing. 
 
 With rods and lines, &c. 
 
 At two o'clock, the hour agreed. 
 We sat us down, ourselves to feed. 
 But fortune was unkind indeed. 
 
 When we were out a fishing ; 
 For Crabb. to whom the pro£|- did fall. 
 Forgot the pie, the beef, and all. 
 And bottled off three quarts of small — 
 
 What stuff for us a fishing.
 
 60 SONGS ETC. 
 
 But, tliank my stars, all danger's past, 
 I'll make the cupboard rue my fast, 
 My first exploit shall be my last, 
 Of going out a fishing. 
 
 With rods and lines, &c. 
 
 BREAKING UP. 
 Break up the House, 
 
 No more of your mag ; 
 Away to the grouse. 
 
 With a gun and a bag. 
 
 No more prose and plod 
 On each wearisome theme ; 
 
 Take your Hue and your rod. 
 And be off to the stream. 
 
 Fling blue books aside, 
 And throw up all reports, 
 
 Mount your horses and ride ; 
 You're dismissed to your s])orts. 
 
 Go out in your yachts, 
 Having cut your debates ; 
 
 Visit famed foreign spots. 
 Or your country estates. 
 
 By inhaling fresh air 
 
 In your drive, ride or walk, 
 
 You the breath may repair 
 Which you've wasted in talk. 
 
 Punch, 1854.
 
 ON ANGLING. 61 
 
 SONG. 
 
 South. west blows the wind, and a lowering sky, 
 
 Proclaims it a right angler's morn ; 
 'Tis sun-rise ! the lark trills his notes upon high ; 
 
 And I hear too the hunter's shrill horn. 
 
 Hie away. 
 
 It is a signal for us to be at our sport. 
 
 Rods, lines, flies, and baits, quick prepare ; 
 
 To woodlands the hunters — to streams we resort, 
 Both alike bent their victims to snare. 
 
 This fine day. 
 
 O'er the waves' dimpling surface we see the flies play. 
 Ne'er distrusting the dangers below ; 
 
 And mark how the finny race leap at their prey, 
 Pressaging of game a rare show. 
 
 My brave boys. 
 
 Bait your hooks, throw your line, watch your floats, 
 and look keen, 
 
 I've a trout — I've a roach — I've a dace 
 
 Such sporting as this is a cure for spleen, 
 As sure as the burst of a chase. 
 
 Full of noise. 
 
 Now change tackle and baits for variety's sake. 
 
 The ledger I chuse — I the troll ; 
 Lo ! a pike ! sure a larger ne'er snared in a lake. 
 
 And a barbel I drag from his hole. 
 
 What a weight.
 
 62 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 And uow let's have done, for if longer I fish, 
 
 With our load we shall ne'er steer our course ; 
 At Trout-Hall, dame will soon make them su)ack in 
 a dish. 
 And we'll smack, drink, and sing till we'er hoarse. 
 
 What a treat. 
 
 THE COCKNEY ANGLER S LAMENT 
 AFTER HIS DAY'S PUNT-FISHING. 
 
 I went down by "The Angler" to Ditton — 
 
 A coach very much to my liking, 
 'Tis convenient and pleasant to sit on. 
 
 And I found all the views very striking. 
 
 Three shillings I paid for my ride, 
 
 And two shillings more for my breakfast : 
 
 But the money, thinks I, I dont mind. 
 If the fish on my hook I but take fast. 
 
 Then a punt was the next thing I wanted, 
 Six and sixpence a-day, too, the price ; 
 
 A man to attend me was granted. 
 
 And I thought I should get on so nice. 
 
 But I found that this chap must be kept 
 With the best of good eating and drinking : 
 
 I confess I could almost have wept 
 To see how my money was shrinking.
 
 ON ANGLING. 63 
 
 PW full half-a-crown's worth he took. 
 And then charged a shilling for baits. 
 
 Which were all I found on my hook — 
 And such sort of sport. Sir, / hates. 
 
 At length after hobbing and bobbing. 
 
 In the best of all beautiful holes. 
 With my heart and my pulse all throbbing. 
 
 Expecting some Turbot or Soles. 
 
 I caught what to me seemed a Sprat, 
 But the punt-man called it a Bleak ; 
 
 And the devil a fish besides that 
 
 Chose to hang on my hook by his beak. 
 
 They talk'd about Barbel as big 
 As my leg, and a precious deal bigger. 
 
 And assured me on some other day 
 I should not cut so foolish a figure : 
 
 But the Bar-bell I found most annoying. 
 Was that which I rang for my bill ; 
 
 As my time and my cash thus employing. 
 Did by no means agree with my will. 
 
 For when "The Angler" return'd. 
 
 And fairly ensconed in the City, 
 My expenses were not to be spurn'd. 
 
 Though on paper they look'd very pretty.
 
 64 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 For at least thirty shillings I spent, 
 
 In the hope to bring up a good dish ; 
 But now I regret that I went, 
 
 And shall henceforth call Bleak my dear fish. 
 
 Farewell to the deep deeps of Ditton ! 
 
 Farewell to the punt-man as deep ! 
 To the coach that's so pleasant to sit on ! — 
 
 The thoughts of ye all makes me weep ! 
 
 J. M. Lacey. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Or haply on some river's cooling bank 
 
 Patiently musing, all intent I stood. 
 
 To hook the scaly glutton. See ! down sinks 
 
 My cork, that faithful monitor ; his weight 
 
 My taper angle bends; surpris'd, amaz'd. 
 
 He glitters in the sun, and struggling pants 
 
 For liberty, till in the pure air 
 
 He breathes no more. Such are our pleasing cares, 
 
 And sweet amusements; such each busy drudge 
 
 Envious must wish, and all the wise enjoy. 
 
 SOMERVILE.
 
 ON ANGLING. G5 
 
 OLD MATTERS. 
 
 The day is clear, the wind is fair, 
 
 I very much ipcline. 
 As I'm a dab, to have a fish 
 
 Upon the Serpentine. 
 
 Here's Master Tait, he tries with bait — 
 
 He cannot throw a line ; 
 While I know every artful dodge 
 
 To fish the Serpentine. 
 
 I hate the sight of Mr Tait ; 
 
 He is no friend of mine. 
 He used me once surprising ill. 
 
 Upon the Serpentine. 
 
 For in the tete, of Mr Tait, 
 
 There harbour'd a design 
 To hook my line, and break my rod, 
 
 Upon the Serpentine. 
 
 He threw in here, and threw in there, 
 
 And struck against my line ; 
 Which cut — quite cut me to the heart, 
 
 Upon the Serpentine. 
 
 If such in future be my lot. 
 
 My rod I will resign. 
 With firm resolve will seal my fate. 
 
 All in the Serpentine. 
 
 F
 
 i>6 S0NG3, ETO. 
 
 SON G . 
 
 Come, fuddle, fuddle, drink about, 
 
 And let us nierr\ be ; 
 Our creel is full^ we'll turn it out. 
 
 And then all hands shall see. 
 
 Fine trout, and barbel here are caught. 
 
 And eels to grace the lot ; 
 Then cheer up, boys, no ill there's fraught. 
 
 And push about the pot. 
 
 The racer's call'd from horse to horse. 
 
 And swiftly rides the race ; 
 More simple joys lie in our course. 
 
 When we are hooking dace. 
 
 When horns and shouts the forest rend. 
 His pack the huntsman cheers ; 
 
 Our sports are these, that freshly send. 
 The music of the spheres. 
 
 We roam about, where joys do smile. 
 With sweethearts and with wives; 
 
 From canker'd cares, our heart beguile, 
 In pleasures pass our lives. 
 
 H. 
 
 Banks of the Trent, 1704.
 
 ON ANGLING, 67 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 Gentle stranger, have you seen. 
 
 An angler pass this way — 
 A blue-ey'd lad, of graceful mein, 
 
 Attired in drab array ? 
 A basket on his back he bore. 
 
 His boots gemm'd with dew, 
 And on his head a cap he wore, 
 
 With fishing-rod — quite new. 
 
 Oft at the early peep of day, 
 
 He courts this sylvan scene. 
 And winds his joy-inspir'ng way, 
 
 Sings sweetly o'er the green. 
 Responsive echo swells his lay. 
 
 In loud resounding strains ; 
 And wafts the dying harmony. 
 
 O'er all the neighbouring plains, 
 
 A sprightly youth this morn I've seen. 
 
 With rod and creel display'd ; 
 And as he brush'd the dew-deck*d green. 
 
 He hail'd a beautious maid ; 
 Swift as the fearful hind he flew, 
 
 Or metor through the skies. 
 And up yon glen — none need persue — 
 
 Bore off his lovely prize. 
 
 1830.
 
 68 SONGS ETC. 
 
 A WELCOME TO WINTER. 
 
 Young smiling Spring, all clad in green, 
 
 Is like a maid in May ; 
 And Summer in July, all sheen. 
 
 Is like a lady gay ; 
 Mild Autumn, like a matron chaste. 
 
 Brings plenty in September ; 
 And like a pilgrim o'er the waste 
 
 Comes Winter in December. 
 
 Winter, though old and hoary, 
 
 I rejoice at thy approach ! 
 Thou art rich in song and story, 
 
 Mirth and glee thou sett'st a-broach ; 
 When thy wrinkled cheek is glowing. 
 
 And thy heart is warmed with ale, 
 No youngster's wit more flowing, — 
 
 None tells a merrier tale. 
 
 The ' unter welcomes Winter back 
 
 More gladly than young Spring, 
 For cheerly then the merry pack 
 
 Make vale and forest ring; 
 Though Winter's wind may blight the flower. 
 
 And strip the oak-tree tall. 
 Though leafless Beauty's summer bower, 
 
 'Tis merry in the hall.
 
 ON ANGLING. 69 
 
 Then welcome. Winter, grey, and old, 
 
 And rugged though thou be ! 
 Though frosty, kindly : blyth, though cold ; 
 
 Though blustering, frank and free. 
 Of all the Seasons chief thou art. 
 
 And Lord of Christmas cheer : 
 'Tis Winter sees the Old depart. 
 
 And welcomes the New Year. 
 Dec. 1837. Stephen Oliver. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 On the banks of some peaceful stream, 
 
 If thou lovest a quite joy ; 
 
 We bid thee forget the tedious dream, 
 
 The struggle of life for Fortune's beam, 
 
 Which the worldly-wise employ. 
 
 Then let the prey in covert rest. 
 
 And 'gain nestle in field and wood. 
 
 And change the scarlet for fisher's vest. 
 
 The stubble and chase for the ^oorf. 
 
 For kiddly doth nature to Anglers appear. 
 
 Though Winder is gone, for the May-day is here.
 
 70 SONG9, ETC. 
 
 SONG TO A SALMON. 
 
 BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 
 
 Thou bonny fish from the far sea 
 
 Whose waves unwearied roll 
 
 In primitive immensity 
 
 Aye buffetting the pole ! 
 
 From millions of thy silvery kind 
 
 In that wide waste that dwell 
 
 Thou only power and path didst find. 
 
 To reach this lonely dell. 
 
 That wond'rous region was thy own. 
 
 That home upon the deep — 
 
 To thee were all the secrets known 
 
 In that dark breast that sleep — 
 
 Thou, while thy form midst heave and toss 
 
 Had still the billows play been. 
 
 Perhaps knewest more than Captain Ross, 
 
 Or yet than Captain Sabine. 
 
 Yea, Fish ! now wise alone was't thou, 
 
 But happy — what's far better — 
 
 Ne'er thy fins to Barrow bow. 
 
 They feared not Crocker's letter — 
 
 But far and wide their strokes they plied 
 
 Smooth thro' the ocean smoother, 
 
 Nor drab-clad Gifi^ord chilled their pride 
 
 Nor Leslie's buft' and blue there. 
 
 *
 
 ON ANGLING. 71 
 
 And now, my Beauty ! bold and well 
 
 Thy pilgrim. course hath been — 
 
 For thou, like Wordsworth's Peter Bell 
 
 Hast gazed on Aberdeen ! 
 
 And all those sweetest banks between. 
 
 By Invercauld's broad tree, 
 
 The world of beauty hast thou seen 
 
 That sleeps upon the Dee, 
 
 There oft in silence clear and bright 
 
 Thou layest a shadow still, 
 
 In some green jiook where with delight 
 
 Joined in the mountain rill, 
 
 There, mid the water's scarce-heard boom 
 
 Didst thou float, rise, and sink. 
 
 While o'er the breathing banks of broom 
 
 The wild deer came to drink. 
 
 Vain sparry grot and verdant cave 
 The stranger to detain — 
 For thou wast wearied of this wave 
 And loud voice of the main ; 
 And nought thy heart could satisfy 
 But those clear gravelly rills, 
 Where once a young and happy fry 
 Thou danced among the hills. 
 
 The river roaring (lf)\vn the rock, 
 The fierce and foaming linn. 
 Essayed to stay thee with the shock. 
 The dark and dizzv din —
 
 72 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 With wilier malice nets and twist 
 To perfect thy undoing, 
 But all those dangers hast thou miss'd. 
 True to thy destin'd ruin ! 
 
 Sure no inglorious death is thine ! 
 Death said I ? Thou'lt ne'er die, 
 But swim upon a Poet's line 
 Down to Eternity, — 
 While, on our board, we'll all allow, 
 O ! odd Fish bright and sheen ! 
 A prime Contributor art thou 
 To Blackwood's Magazine. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 You see the ways the fisherman doth take 
 To catch the fish : what engines doth he make ? 
 Behold ! how he engageth all his wits ; 
 Also his snares, lines, angles, hooks and nets : 
 Yet fish there be, that neither hook nor line, 
 Nor snare, nor net, nor engine can make thine : 
 They must be gropped fur, and be tickled tdo. 
 Or they will not be catch'd whate'er you do. 
 
 John Bunyan.
 
 ON ANGLING. 73 
 
 SONG. 
 
 It chanc'd that an Angler, who liv'd at Cheapside, 
 With new tackle and nice lively bait. 
 On a iishing excursion to Putney bridge hied. 
 And there in a punt, at the due time of tide. 
 Expectant and watchful, he sate. 
 
 That pastime is virtue, the proverb declares. 
 And our sportsmen gave practical proof; 
 For though he display'd all his craftiest snares, 
 Tho' his hooks were conceal 'd, and his lines single 
 The curs'd fish still kept swimming aloof. Qiairs. 
 
 At length he grew hungry, and weary, and wet. 
 For the ptint was both leaky and cranky ; 
 And though he with caution each tempting bait set. 
 Not a minnow, a loach, or an eel, could he get. 
 For they all seem'd to say, "No I thank 'ee". 
 
 A wag on the bridge, said, "No longer contend. 
 For you've dev'lish bad luck below, brother ; 
 And the fault's in your rod, (for I speak as a friend) 
 Tho' 'tis certainly true, there's a worm at one end, 
 Fet a fool scars the fish, at the other.
 
 74 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 HINTS TO NORTH COUNTRY ANGLERS 
 
 IN CHOOSING A WIFE. 
 
 (an old ballad.) 
 
 Nortliinnberland lads, who use the gads. 
 
 And female affiance must share ; 
 If you wish to wed, betroth to bed, 
 
 One called with caution and care. 
 
 Knight of the flee, give ear to me, 
 
 The country I've scann'd around ; 
 So, from the mass, select a lass, 
 
 Where beauties and virtues abound. 
 
 The lasses of Tweed are daft indeed. 
 
 There garlands give such grace; 
 The lasses of Till, are sprightly still. 
 
 In figure, and fashion, and face. 
 
 The lasses of Bremish, look rather squamish. 
 
 Embellished with elegant ease ; 
 The lasses of Ale, for plumage prevail. 
 
 These pomp and appendages please. 
 
 The lasses of Aln. obey fashion's call, when 
 
 A princess precribes a new dress ; 
 The lasses of Reed, each hair-braids her head. 
 
 And apes a-la-mode to excess. 
 
 The lasses of Wansheck, like dignified dames deck, 
 
 And their address quite deboniar ; 
 The lasses of Pont, though pronounced paramount. 
 
 Can scarce with these comets compare.
 
 eN ANGLING. 75 
 
 The lasses of Pont, to decorate don't 
 Soar yet in the sphere of extremes ; 
 
 The lasses of Erring, on fashions conferring, 
 The decent most dext'rous deem. 
 
 The lasses of Tyne,who peerless shine. 
 
 Are mirrors of modesty too ; 
 The lasses of Coquet, put all in their pocket ; 
 
 Go all to the Coquet and woo. 
 
 So take my advice, in fishing so nice, 
 
 These provident paragons view ; 
 So splendid and pretty, so worthy and witty. 
 
 You'll never have reason to rue. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Let us love to be merry and wise. 
 
 To angle and sport with a friend ; 
 
 To love to assist in a song, 
 
 And mirth with our wandering to blend ; 
 To sing with the merry. 
 To sport with sad. 
 And to whip off a bumper, 
 
 To make the heart glad. 
 
 J. P.
 
 76 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 OLD BIAY DAY. 
 
 When I was young and in my prime. 
 Then every thing look'd gay ; 
 
 And nothing was so merry as 
 The merry First of May. 
 
 Kind nature which doth ever smile, 
 Seem'd then to smile the more ; 
 
 And every Spring that time did bring, 
 Seem'd greener than before. 
 
 The birds they sang so jocundly— 
 They fiU'd the air around, 
 
 And human hearts as joyously. 
 Responded to the sound. 
 
 I recollect the lovely scene 
 
 As though I saw it still. 
 The mansion of a noble race. 
 
 Was seated on a hill. 
 
 And smilingly it seem'd to look 
 
 Upon a lake below, 
 Where groups of happy Londoners 
 
 Were angling to and fro. 
 
 The ruddy hostess of the Inn, 
 Which stood within the vale, 
 
 Supplied the thirsty anglers 
 
 With draughts of ruit-brown ale.
 
 ON ANGLING. 77 
 
 While pleas'd the neighbouring gentry stood. 
 
 And view'd the cheerful scene, 
 Or laid aside their rank to join. 
 
 The anglers on the green. 
 1836. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN IN A COPY OF HOF- 
 LAND'S "BRITISH ANGLER" 
 
 PRESENTED TO A FRIEND, 
 
 No more the Angler's silent trade 
 I play ; aside my tackle laid ; 
 My hooks are rusted ; of my flies 
 Consuming moths have made a prize. 
 At dewy morn — at evening grey. 
 With rod in hand no more I stray 
 By Teviot, Beament, Kale or Tweed, 
 By Liddal, Yarrow, Jed, or Reed, ; 
 By Glen or Coquet, Till or Tyne, 
 'Tis three years since I wet a line ! 
 For fishing I am off the hooks ; 
 I've also shelved my angling books ; 
 Old Walton's page no more I cou. 
 Young Stephen's "occupations gone" ; 
 Young Stephen once — now, well-a-day, 
 He's forty two, and turning grey. 
 May 18, 1841. Stephen Oliver
 
 78 SONGS, ETC, 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 PROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 There was a gentle Angler 
 
 Who was angling in the sea, 
 With heart as cool as any heart. 
 
 Untaught of love can be ; 
 When suddenly the waters rushed. 
 
 And swelled, and up their sprung 
 A humid maid of beauty's mould — 
 
 And thus to him she sung : 
 
 Why dost thou strive so artfully 
 
 To lure my brood away. 
 And leave them to die beneath 
 
 The sun's all-scorching ray ? 
 Could'st thou but tell how happy are 
 
 The fish that swim below. 
 Thou would'st with me, and taste of joys 
 
 Which earth can never know. 
 
 Does not bright sol, Diana too. 
 
 More lovely far appear 
 When they have dipped in ocean's wave 
 
 Their golden, silvery hair .'' 
 And is there no attraction 
 
 In this heaven-expance of blue. 
 Nor in thine image mirrored 
 
 In this everlasting dew .-^
 
 ON ANGLING. 79^ 
 
 The water rushed, the water swelled, 
 
 And touched his naked feet. 
 And fancy whispered to his heart 
 
 It was a love, pledge sweet : 
 She sung another siren lay. 
 
 More 'witching than before. 
 Half-pulled — half-plunging — down he sunk. 
 
 And ne'er was heard of more. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Come change your taper rods, my lads 
 Your palmer flies, and eke your gads. 
 Your silken lines, and yellow hackle. 
 For stouter arms, and firmer tackle ; 
 The "trouties", prithee spare just now, 
 'Twere shame to kill them, boys, I vow ; 
 But if you seek a noble prize. 
 Deep in the stream, we know, there lies 
 A pike, that in half hour to kill. 
 Would be a test of Angler's skill ; 
 That Pike our evening meal must be, 
 So forth. I'll hear your company.
 
 80 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 AXGLING ON THE WANSBECK. 
 
 The heavens are bright, the morning gale 
 Wantons o'er the woodland vale. 
 Amidst the sweet sequester'd scene, 
 Save by the warbling birds unseen. 
 With angling step, and musing mind, 
 Along the rugged banks I wind. 
 Where sturdy oaks with willows throw, 
 Their shadows o'er the streams below. 
 
 The stream is swift, its waters clear 
 Betray the rocky bottom near ; 
 Where shapeless stones, of various hue, 
 And gushing streams, deceive the view, 
 Where men may stand, and think they see. 
 Fantastic works of jewelry ; 
 Bright gems upon the golden strand, 
 Disposed in form by fairy hand. 
 
 Above my head, the vault is blue. 
 The sun has drunk the morning dew, 
 And oft I left the margin high, 
 To ramble in the forests nigh. 
 Confus'd and rude ; yet sweet to me, 
 A wide and charming scenery, 
 In every shade of verdant light, 
 Extends itself beyond the sight.
 
 ON AXGLING. 81 
 
 Here king-like oaks stretch far their sway. 
 And here in satin vesture gay. 
 The courtier birchs stand in groups, 
 And here the lonely willow droops. 
 Sad emblem of some hapless fair. 
 Or struggling life consigned to care. 
 
 Her graceful bough here flings the rose. 
 And here the dark-green holly grows, 
 And distant beeches tall and fair. 
 Wave their hundred arms in air. 
 Here round the privet green and gay. 
 The eglentine has twin'd her way. 
 And at her mossy feet are set 
 The primrose and the violet. 
 
 The linnet's note, the blackbird's song. 
 That sound the tangled brakes among ; 
 The gurggling streams, the rustling breeze. 
 The warbling lark, the hum of bees ; 
 All sounds and sights T heard and saw. 
 Deep sympethatic strains they draw ; 
 And oft on fancy's wing I stray. 
 And throw the fly and catch the prey.
 
 82 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 A DAY BY THE SIDE OF THE TYNE. 
 
 Tune. — ''Derry Down" 
 
 Come my lads, from your pillows spring, open your 
 
 eyes, 
 And look out the best of your rods and your flies : 
 Cast care far behind you — let sorrow go pine — 
 For we swear we'll be off to the Banks of the Tyne. 
 
 But, first, let the board be spread, ample and wide. 
 Nor there's no fun in fasting, whatever betide ; 
 Let the eggs come in clusters, the coffee in streams. 
 And the ham, tongue, and fowl, fade away like your 
 dreams. 
 
 Now a ''caulker," the finest, of rich mountain dews. 
 To add zest to our spirits and strength to our views ; 
 Then away ! like true sons of the angle we'll shine. 
 With our rods, creels, and lines on the Banks of the 
 Tyne. 
 
 Where 'Newburn lies bright, in the rich morning time. 
 With its age. sprinkled turret, all calm and sublime, 
 We'll start like Vqqw fishermen, up to the chase, 
 Determin'd no fumtive beats us the race. 
 
 "O" 
 
 Then on will we ramble to Wylam^s deep holes. 
 Where the large heavy trout lie together in shoals. 
 And we'll hook them, and creel them, and make the 
 
 glades ring. 
 As with hearts, like our rods, all elastic, we'll sing.
 
 ON ANGLING. 83 
 
 Ha ! here's Oviitgham, famed, whare the Great Be- 
 wick lies, 
 Once so dext'rous at handling the bonny brown flies, 
 As he roav'd, in his youth, by the side of the streams 
 Which he afterwards hallow'd in glory's bright beams. 
 
 May his mem'ry be bless'd where he lies by the side 
 Of his own rapid river, his glory and pride ; 
 FevF grae'd it as he did throughout the bright day. 
 And — so — fitting it is he should live in our lay. 
 
 We'll visit his streamlets, decorous in mood 
 To think that we stand where the Giant One stood ; 
 But, how sacred soever the streamlet may be, 
 We'll still hook "the natives" with hearts full of glee. 
 
 Then 5y/ye//'.y deep pools of some ■''thumpers'' we'll 
 
 drain. 
 While ev'ry new cast gives new mirth to the strain, 
 And the salmon lie splendid and bright to the eye. 
 As they take their last look of the stream and tlie sky. 
 
 Now, our creels being well fill'd, vve will all form a 
 
 truce, 
 For a true fisher never takes aught but for use ; 
 
 And we'll leave the bright denizens, happy and gay, 
 Till we pay our next visit another grand day. 
 
 And we'll off to the "Matchem" where Trotter 
 
 "hangs out," 
 A rare hand and skilful at cooking a trout ; 
 
 And with salmon, ham-collops and eggs, too, galore, 
 
 We'll eat, drink, and sing, as we've oft done before.
 
 84 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Then, when midnight dravvs nigh and the dial of fun 
 Shows how truly and blyth our gay course we have 
 
 run, 
 We'll stand, hand in hand, with our glasses at bay. 
 And M-e'll drink, 'To our next merry meeting, hurrah' 
 
 Newcastle, May 1, 1840. W. G. T. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 What equals on earth the delight of the angler. 
 
 For whom does life's cup more enchanting flow ; 
 To follow the stream through the forests and meadows 
 When brightly the beams of the morning first glow. 
 
 O ! this is a pleasure that's worthy of Princes, 
 Such health in its wand'rings can ever be found ; 
 
 When echoing caverns and forests surround us. 
 More gaily the pledge of the goblet will sound. 
 
 The light of Diana illumines our dell. 
 
 The groves where in summer we often retreat ; 
 
 Nor is then the shy trout in his covert securest, 
 The salmon, so bright, is laid at our feet.
 
 ON ANGLING. 85 
 
 AN ANGLER'S CONTEMPLATION ON A 
 
 LITTLE BROOK. 
 
 Angling one summer morn alone, 
 I sat me down upon a stone, 
 A little purling brook beside. 
 Whose modest, silver, rippling tide, 
 Mov'd by the Zephyr's softest sigh 
 Was scarcely heard by passers by. 
 
 A sunbeam glanc'd upon its breast, 
 And forming thence a silvery crest, 
 Caught my full gaze, and led me then, 
 From thinking on the deeds of men, 
 To view, with contemplative look, 
 This little, simple, modest brook. 
 
 Pure and serene thy waters flow. 
 
 Thy bosom no rude storms can know — 
 
 Shelter'd thy little hills among, 
 
 That oft re-echo back the song 
 
 Of shepherd as he home. ward glides. 
 
 Sweeping thy margin's mossy sides. 
 
 What tho' thy station humble be. 
 Thy power to serve mankind — is free. 
 The sportive youth can part thy love. 
 And, seeking health, can part thy wave ; 
 The wanderer's thirst in noon of day, 
 Thy sparkling stream can well allay.
 
 86 SONGH, ETC. 
 
 The little shining speckl'd swarm, 
 In thy kind bosom dread no harm ; 
 The lily, by thy border side, 
 Sips nourishment from out tliy tide. 
 Peace — peace and happiness are thine — 
 Oh ! may thy quiet lot be mine. 
 
 Bnt should ambition cause thee glide 
 
 To seek some ocean's swelling tide. 
 
 Thy pleasing powers to aid might cease. 
 
 Thy means of injury increase — 
 
 Thy placid stream — thy gentle breast, 
 
 With ill. sought power w^ould know no rest. 
 
 Thou emblem of the life of man. 
 Teach him this moral deep to scan — 
 That he's endu'd with equal means. 
 To practise good in humble scenes — 
 The ambitious state he would prefer 
 Increases but the power — to err. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Care knows not the lad that is merry 
 
 Whose lieart's in his rod. 
 
 Whose flies are his god. 
 
 He's plump and red as a. cherry. 
 
 H.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 87 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Awake, np, up, and away to the streams. 
 
 Where the speckl'd trout lies sleeping ; 
 Where the salmon leaps, and the grayling peeps. 
 
 And the pike a watch is keeping. 
 Yes, awake and away ! all your dreamings dismiss, 
 
 And away with all snobbish adorning ; 
 There never was sky of such promise as this ; 
 
 Then huzza for an angling morning ! 
 
 O ! who'd the glorious rills forsake, 
 
 Aad their rippling pools not follow ; 
 Through the mountain chasm, through the moun- 
 tain brake. 
 Or down the shaddy hollovy. 
 
 Then awake and away, &c. 
 
 Though the bowl may yield some joy to the heart. 
 
 Of rapture, too, partaking ; 
 Yet it never can rival the angler's start 
 
 When the dark grey sky is first breaking. 
 
 Then awake and away, &c. 
 
 Though sonie still swear no charm can vie 
 
 With beauty's glance and tone ; 
 Yet give me the flash of the salmon's eye. 
 
 And the sigh of his dying moan. 
 Then awake and away, all your dreaming dismiss, 
 
 And away with all snobbish adorning; 
 There never was sky of such promise as this. 
 
 Then huzza for an angling morning !
 
 88 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 (written by a lady to sir HUMPHREY DAVY.) 
 
 Albeit, gentle reader, I 
 
 Delight not in thy trade ; 
 Yet in thy pages there doth lie 
 So much of quaint simplicity, 
 So much of mind 
 Of such good kind, 
 That none need be afraid. 
 Caught by thy cunning bait — this book. 
 To be ensnared on thy hook. 
 
 Gladly from thee I am lured to bear, 
 
 With things that seemed most vile before, 
 For thou dost on poor subjects rear. 
 Matter the wisest sage might hear. 
 And with a grace 
 That doth efface 
 More laboured works, thy simple lore 
 Can teach us, that thy skilful lines 
 More than the scally brood confines. 
 
 Our hearts and senses too, we see, 
 
 Rise quickly at thy master hand. 
 And ready to be caught by thee. 
 And lured to venture willingly ; 
 Content and peace ; 
 With health and ease, 
 Walk by thy side, at thy command. 
 We bid adieu'to worldly care. 
 
 And joy in gifts that all may share.
 
 ON ANGLING, 89 
 
 Gladly with thee I pace along, 
 Aud of sweet fancies dream ; 
 Waiting till some inspired song. 
 Within my memory cherished long, 
 Comes fairer forth. 
 With more of worth. 
 Because that time upon the stream, 
 Feathers and chaff will bear away, 
 But gives the gems a brighter ray. 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 O'er moorland and mountain, rude, barren and bare. 
 
 When angling and wearied I roam ; 
 A gentle young damsel espies my despair. 
 
 And leads me by streams to her home. 
 
 True neatness and order her cottage had crown'd, 
 Green rushes were strew'd on the floor ; 
 
 Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, 
 And deck'd the sod seats at the door. 
 
 I told my soft wishes ; she sweetly replied, 
 
 (Ye virgins, her voice was divine ! ) 
 "I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied. 
 
 Yet take me, fond angler — I'm thine."
 
 90 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Reclin'd u[)ou a bank of moss, 
 Whicli goldon biittcr-cups emboss. 
 
 And violets stud profusely ; 
 Beside the trout-enliven'd Stour, 
 With Pope's dear verse I charm the hour, 
 
 lu pensive ease reclusely. 
 
 Poor Dash alone, my old ally. 
 Sits in profound demurness nigh. 
 
 O'er watching every page ; 
 And wondering much, as much he may, 
 What case can thus, the summer day. 
 
 His master's care engage. 
 
 But sliould Amanda seek the brook. 
 With sprotive line and specious hook. 
 
 To tempt the finny race ; 
 At once I quit the charming lays. 
 On her beguiling eyes to gaze. 
 
 And soft dissemblius; face. 
 
 '» 
 
 She with her treacherous smile serene. 
 Her sly placidity of mien, 
 
 And those bewitching eyes ; 
 Throws out the Hue with finest art. 
 More bent to catch a foolish heart, 
 
 Thau seize a wat'ry prize.
 
 ON ANGLING. 91 
 
 Vain angler ! slave to man's applause. 
 Heartless herself, for hearts she draws ; 
 
 Then flings them lightly by ; 
 Yet, though I know and scorn the cheat, 
 Bewitched by all her bland deceit, 
 
 I cannot, dare not, fly. 
 
 JULIA MARIA. 
 
 In days of old, when first refinement's light 
 
 Broke through the midst of chaos and of night. 
 
 Our great great-grandmothers were giv'n alone 
 
 Such humble Chri'stian names as Maud and Joan r 
 
 E'en Arc's heroic Maid the latter bore. 
 
 And IMaud, a celebrated Queen of yore. 
 
 But such th'improvement of our polish'd age, 
 
 And such the revolutionary rage. 
 
 That milk and fish-fags now are Arabellas, 
 
 Lousisas, Julias, Carolines, and Stellas. 
 
 As t'other day a fish-wench trail'd along. 
 
 And "Sprats as big as herrings, ho !" her song, 
 
 She thus aderess'd — in acents far more mild — 
 
 Nay, Stentor-like, her filthy wandering cliild — 
 
 "Julia Maria ! — little imp of evil ! 
 
 Come from the kennel, come — you dirty devil !"
 
 92 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 LINES 
 written in pencil in a copy op 
 slater's angler. 
 To the stream let us go, 
 Where the hawthorns do blow. 
 And inhale the sweet balm of the vale ; 
 With our rods tight and right. 
 And our flies in good plight, 
 Our spirits with joy we'll regale. 
 
 No pastimes and pleasures, 
 
 No wealth nor no treasures. 
 
 Can yield us so much real delight ; 
 
 As to throw the light fly, 
 
 And with quick skilful eye. 
 
 Hook the salmon — sportive and bright. 
 
 He leaps back and before, 
 
 Runs to deeps and to shore. 
 
 Then yields up his strength to our skill ; 
 
 We sieze hold of the boon. 
 
 Turn our steps toward the town, — 
 
 To muse on the sports of the rill. 
 
 1820. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 How sweet is the breath of the briar. 
 
 How pleasant the sight of the glen ! 
 
 With rod in hand I never tire. 
 
 Nor feel opprest like other men. 
 
 Shenstone.
 
 ON ANGLING. 93 
 
 MY OWN RIVER. 
 
 As pants the hart for water brooks, 
 
 So I do pant to be 
 Once more an angler on thy banks. 
 My river bright and free. 
 
 Oh let them bear me far away 
 
 From this dull couch of pain. 
 And lay me on thy daisied bank. 
 
 My angling stream again. 
 
 Fondly my memory recalls 
 
 The valley of my birth, 
 Where from thy mossy craddle comes 
 
 The music of thy mirth. 
 
 The summer winds that tremblingly 
 Through reeds and flag flowers quiver. 
 
 Sing thee a dreamy lullaby, 
 O gentle angling river ! 
 
 From the pole clustering hazel boughs 
 
 The blackbird pours his song, 
 While playfully the tiny waves 
 
 In sunshine roll along. 
 
 Through meadows green so tranquilly 
 
 Thy dimpling waters stray, 
 Yet linger round each flow'ry bank 
 
 In seeming fond delay.
 
 94 SONGS ETC. 
 
 Crowding around thy grassy braes 
 The timid wild flowers creep. 
 
 To see their forms reflected fair 
 Within thy gentle deep. 
 
 Novy through the insect-haunted grove 
 Thy silent path thou'rt wending, 
 
 The giant trees in homage deep 
 To kiss thy wave are bending. 
 
 The blue-wing'd swallow bathes her bi-east 
 While o'er thee she doth glide ; 
 
 The wild bee pauses in her work 
 To sip thy glassy tide. 
 
 By well-tili'd field and garden. 
 
 And egg-white cottage wall, 
 Thou wand'rest on, while fruit trees blow 
 
 And rose leaves on thee fall. 
 
 The angling streams run round the stones 
 Where maidens meet at eve. 
 
 With rural jest and merry laugh, 
 Their unshod feet to lave. 
 
 So gentle and so beautiful. 
 
 Thou boldest on thy way. 
 So harmless, e'en small children in 
 
 Thy sunny shallows play. 
 
 Roll on, roll on, I shall not draw 
 
 A moral from thy race, 
 Enough for me, O angling stream, 
 
 Thy pleasant banks to trace.
 
 ON ANGLING. 95 
 
 TO THE STREAMLET. 
 
 Haste to the streamlet ! see, the sun 
 Full half his morning course hath run ; 
 The blackbird leaves the hawthorn hedge — 
 The wild-duck seeks the sheltering sedge — 
 The Shepherd, as he wends along 
 The hill-side, trolls his matin song ; 
 All nature smiles, serene and gay, 
 Then to the streamlet haste away ! 
 
 What is the crowded city, rife 
 
 With all the ills of social life ? 
 
 What all its pomp, scarce seen ere past, 
 
 Like metor midnight's murky vest ? 
 
 Oh ! what are these, when the young eye 
 
 May gaze on heaven's unclouded sky? 
 
 What, but the baubles of a day ? 
 
 Then to the streamlet haste away ! 
 
 Haste to the streamlet, see, the sun 
 Full half his morning course hath run ; 
 The sheep instinctive seek the glade^ — 
 The swine-herd courts the beechen shade — 
 The flow' rets, in th'enamel'd mead. 
 No longer dew-dropt, hang their head ; 
 Fatigued the school-boy rests from play — 
 Then to the streamlet haste away !
 
 96 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Oh ! who, when scenes like these are form'd 
 To throw a charm on all around. 
 Who, free from life's fictitious care, 
 Blighted ambition, dark despair, 
 And all the thousand woes that wait 
 Around the sleepless couch of state, 
 Oh ! who from such retreat would stay ? 
 Then to the streamlet haste -way ! 
 
 Haste to the streamlet, see, the sun 
 Full half his morning course hath run ; 
 The thrush re-seeks the hawthorn bough. 
 The sheep regain the mountain brow. 
 The flowers uplift their prudent head. 
 And round their mingled odours spread ; 
 The swine-herd, too, has left the brae — 
 Then to the streamlet haste away ! 
 
 Say, can the midnight ball-rooms glare 
 With Dian's chastened beams compare — 
 Can e'en the flute so sweet prevail 
 O'er Philomel's sad plantive tale ? 
 Or where can youth his vows so well 
 As by the moonlight waters tell ? 
 Lov'st thou all these ? with me then stray 
 And to the streamlet haste aw'ay !
 
 ON ANGLING. 97 
 
 AN ODE-LET TO MR IZAACK WALTON. 
 
 BY JOHN HAMILTON. 
 
 Oh ! pleasant are the green banks of the Lea, — 
 
 And pleasant are its waters, silver sweet ; 
 It thirsteth me, on May-day morns, to be 
 
 Clad in an angler's simple garments meet, — 
 Treading with gentle Izaack's spirit. — there 
 
 By the pike's hollow lair ; 
 And near the shallovrs, where the minnow twinkles 
 
 His little tail, — and wrinkles 
 The restless waters, — beside the place 
 
 Where darts the dace ! 
 
 'E.ow clear the sun is shining in the sky ! 
 How innocent the silent meadows lie ! 
 How freshly comes the miller from his mill. 
 
 And looks about at will ! 
 The water glideth with a sleepy sound. 
 O'er coiling deeplets, and by grassy ground ; 
 And busy fish rise up to watch who be 
 
 So early at the Lea ! 
 Then leave the surface, amid silvery rings, 
 
 Like water-sprites on wings. 
 
 Good Master Walton ! What a heart was thine ! 
 
 (Simplicity knelt at it, like a shrine !) 
 
 How well thy fisher-muse could cast the line ! 
 
 How daintily she threw 
 
 Her song across the dew, 
 
 H
 
 98 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 When the soft low came from the distant kine. 
 
 And when, in comely inn, on Amwell Hill, 
 
 A pil<Trim from the stream, thou sattest still, — 
 
 Taking a dream of quiet, at thy fill. 
 
 Over the soft mist of a silent pipe, — 
 
 On old man's nothings contemplation-ripe. — 
 
 How wouldst thy heart gladden, when Madge drew 
 
 nigh. 
 The stainless wench that never knew a sigh ; 
 But knew a song, and sang it at thy call — 
 A grass-green pastoral. 
 
 The cold Lea misseth thee — and seemeth now 
 To flow with memory's wrinkles on its brow ; 
 The steep of Tottenham feels thine antique loss. 
 And sadness gloometh upon Waltham's Cross. 
 
 The pike rush boldly by — 
 
 Thou art not nigh ! 
 Large yellow barbel at the bottom lie. 
 And gaze upon the bait without a sigh. 
 The armed perch starts its red fins — and cares 
 Nought for the minnow, or the brandling snares ; 
 
 Sport comes not with the day ; 
 
 Thou art away ! 
 And we, poor things, with landing-nets and line. 
 And rod, and bait, — but prowl, and poke, and pine. 
 
 How ! — ('tis beneath me, and beneath the joys 
 Of a true angler — prone to be envy free.)
 
 ON ANGLING. 99 
 
 How I do envy those two tiny boys, 
 Prankt up with hazel-rod and corduroys. 
 
 Who, stealing all along the grassy ledge. 
 Are simple fishers of the lazy Lea ; 
 
 I am not fit to seek this quiet sedge, — 
 The natural Walton faileth all in me! 
 I shy the stranger, and the idler, — I, — 
 I court to see the gazer pass me by ; 
 
 I shun to bait 
 When passing labourers wait, 
 I long to cross and find some friendly gate, 
 
 Or hedge. 
 I*pause — and fret — and drain my leathern cup. 
 
 And put my tackle up ! 
 How is't that all my simple arts and joys 
 
 Descend upon these boys .'' 
 Do — make me, Walton, like thee, meek and mild — 
 Pure as a man and happy as a child. 
 
 THE RUD. 
 
 The Rud, a kind of roach, all ting'd with gold. 
 Strong, broad, and thick, most lovely to behold ; 
 High on the surface will with freedom bite 
 At small red worms, or flies, his like delight ; 
 But, angler, when you've hook'dihini, then take care. 
 He struggles long, and breaks the single hair. 
 
 Moses Browne.
 
 100 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 By purling streams, in shady dell. 
 The angler tunes his vocal shell, 
 
 And, hark ! invites the fair; 
 Soft and enticing are his lays. 
 And sweet of men to sense his praise — 
 Our smiles reward his care. 
 
 The jolly angler's sports we'll join. 
 And love with pastime shall combine. 
 
 Too long has foolish custom crept 
 Between the sexes — too long kept 
 
 Those form'd for bliss apart ; « 
 
 The bottle's rude intemp'rate noise, 
 The social charms of life destroys. 
 
 Which women's born t'impart. 
 
 The jolly angler's, &c. 
 
 The chase ill suits our tender frame. 
 Exposure brings the blush of shame — 
 
 Indelicate display ; 
 But see the fair with arm divine 
 Spring round the rod, and throw the line, 
 
 'Tis grace herself at play. 
 
 The jolly angler's, &c. 
 
 We'll have the peaceful angler's joys. 
 The world's tumult, care, and noise. 
 For calmer scenes resign ;
 
 ON ANGLING. lOl 
 
 Upon our cheeks health's ruddy glow. 
 Ethereal beauty will bestow. 
 And make our charms divine. 
 
 The jolly angler's, &c. 
 
 Boy, hither bring th'elastic wand, 
 Endued with magic by our hand, 
 
 'Twill charm the finny prey ; 
 With graceful sweep, the line once thrown, 
 Fishes as well as men shall own 
 
 Our universal sway. 
 
 The jolly angler's, &c. 
 
 THE TOAST. 
 
 WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS IN AN INN 
 NEAR DUMBARTON. 
 
 Let's fish and let's sing together, 
 In spite of wind and weather ; 
 For here pure joy is foiuid, 
 So let the toast go round ; 
 Come here's to all anglers true. 
 Fill your glasses, but ne'er get fou !
 
 102 SONGS,. ETC. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Dark is the ever flowing stream. 
 And snow falls on the lake ; 
 
 For none the noontide sunny-beam. 
 Scarce pierces bower and brake, 
 
 And flood or envious frost destroys, 
 A portion of the angler's joys. 
 
 Yet still we'll talk of sport gone by. 
 
 Of triumphs we have won ; 
 Of waters we again shall try, 
 
 When sparkling with the sun ; 
 Of favourite haunts, by meander dell. 
 
 Haunts, which the fisher loves so well. 
 
 Of stately Thames, of gentle Lea, 
 
 The merry monarch seat ; 
 Of Ditton's stream, or Avon's brow, 
 
 Or Mitchim's mild retreat ; 
 Of waters by the wear or mill. 
 
 And all that tries the angler's skill. 
 
 -beneath the quivering shade, 
 
 Where cooling vapours breath along the mead. 
 The patient fisher takes his stand. 
 Intent, his angle trembling in his hand. 
 With looks immov'd, he hopes the scally breed. 
 And eyes the dancing cork, and bending reed. 
 
 Wilson.
 
 ON ANGLING. 103 
 
 THE KING OF THE FEN WATERS. 
 
 A LEGEND. 
 
 Beneath the still waters is the Fen King so brave^ 
 
 Whose power o'er the marches prevails ; 
 His eyes are hot coals^ and his mouth is a cave. 
 And his beard, for not one of the Fen Kings can 
 Is as long as a dozen horse tails, [^shave, 
 
 The stumps of his teeth are like crags of the rocks. 
 
 His nose seems a mountain of beef; 
 Like bars of old steel are his stiff and straight locks, 
 And a coronet of green, of reeds, rushes, and docks. 
 
 Proclaims him of marches the chief. 
 
 Full stern is his visage, and horridly bright 
 
 Is the glare of his red rolling eye ; 
 Dismay'd is each fisherman 's heart at the sight, 
 As on the wild marches he sees in the light. 
 
 The Fen King and company might. 
 
 For oft, when the midnight broods over the fen, 
 
 And the bitterns are screaming around, 
 Beheld with dismay by benighted poor men. 
 The Fen King displays his stern visage, and then 
 The night mares prance over the ground. 
 
 Beneath the blue waters his palace is seen. 
 
 All fishermen truly aver ; 
 And oft as their boats sail slow on the Nenc, 
 They get a sly peep both at him and his Queen, 
 
 And loud are their jiraises of her.
 
 104 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Of water-rat's fur in a mantle so warrtij 
 
 With a corouet green on her head. 
 She oft walks abroad at the end of a storm, 
 And the fishes are pleased at the sight of her fort ; 
 
 Though they gaze at the Fen King with dread. 
 
 For oft when the winds have long slept in the sky, 
 
 And the streams are unruffled and clear, 
 Beneath the blue waters his red rolling eye 
 Is seen, and well knowing a tempest is nigh. 
 The fisherman shudder with fear. 
 
 Yes, when in his hunger he rages around, 
 
 A tempest soon falls on the fen ; 
 Cows, oxen, and sheep, in the waters are drown'd. 
 And he, and his spouse, in their palace profound. 
 
 Sublimely are feasted again. 
 
 O ye, who from Granton to Crowland repair, 
 
 To gaze at monastic remains; 
 O never forget, if the weather is fair. 
 To hunt on the Nene for the palace so rare. 
 
 Where the Fen King so splendidly reigns. 
 
 O look for its turrets resplendent with gold. 
 
 And studded with emeralds green ; 
 For oft by the maidens of Ramsea, I'm told, 
 These words were pronounced by a wizard of old. 
 Who dwelt on the banks of the Nene.
 
 ON ANGLING. 105 
 
 "Beneath tlie blue waters wlioev^er shall see 
 
 The place so lofty and bright, 
 Of the Fen King so fierce, and his lady so free. 
 It is certain through ages to come he shall be 
 
 Renown 'd for his goodness of sight". 
 
 TO AN ANGLER. 
 At setting eve, and rising morn. 
 
 With soul that e'er shall love thee ; 
 I'll watch thy wanderings by the stream, 
 
 With all that can improve thee. 
 I'll visit oft the berkin bush. 
 
 Where first thou kindly told me 
 Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush 
 
 Whilst round those didst unfold me. 
 
 To all your haunts I will repair. 
 
 By streamlet, shade, or fountain, 
 Or where the summer day I'd share. 
 
 With thee upon yon mountain ; 
 Or shall I tell to streams and rills 
 
 From thoughts unfeigned and tender. 
 By vows your mine — you've caught a heart- 
 
 A heart which ne'er can wander.
 
 10(i SONGS ETC. 
 
 AN ANGLER'S LIFE FOR MEE. 
 To campes and courts let others rove, 
 
 In quest of ranke and fame. 
 To these repair who titles love, 
 
 To those who seek a name. 
 The merchant man in search of gaiuc, 
 
 May plow the pathless sea. 
 But roave who may, by rill I'll stay. 
 
 An angler's life for mee. 
 
 I'd rather rise at earlier dawne. 
 
 When summer wedds with springe, 
 And brush the dewe drops from the lawne. 
 
 While merry larkes doe sing, 
 Than snore in bedd, with aching heade> 
 
 Throwe wine and revelrie ; 
 Such pleasures still pursue who will. 
 
 An angler's life for mee. 
 
 The strains which flowe in courtlie hall. 
 
 May please a courtlie eare ; 
 But give mee still at evening's fall. 
 
 The linnet's pipe to heare; 
 See shepherds dancing with their maides. 
 
 Below the greene-woode tree ; 
 While wildlie floates the throstle's notes — 
 
 An angler's life for mee. 
 
 1701.
 
 ON ANGLING. 107 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN JN PENCIL, ON THE DOOR OP AN INN, 
 IN A REMOTE DISTRICT OF WESTMORLAND. 
 
 The dark grey of gloamin', 
 
 The lone leafy shaw, 
 The loo of the cushat, 
 
 The scent of the haw ; 
 The brae of the burnie. 
 
 All deck'd out with flowers. 
 Where two kindred anglers 
 
 Spent many sweet hours. 
 
 A flask of good whisky. 
 
 Sandwiches and ale, 
 A smiling good housewife. 
 
 When our fishing doth fail ; 
 With plenty of joking. 
 
 And singing and fun, 
 Give zest to the sporting, 
 
 With rod and with gun. 
 
 Ye, lost to all pleasure. 
 
 Whom nothing can move, 
 Ne'er to stir from your lairs. 
 
 Nor by streamlet to move ; 
 ^Away with your sounds. 
 
 Away with your store. 
 Ye know not the pleasures 
 
 Of angling an hour.
 
 108 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 An angler's life lias joys for me. 
 
 When blooming spring has clad the plain 
 
 Each sprey then sounds with jocund glee. 
 For spring bring pleasure in her train. 
 
 'Tis then the angler's truest joy. 
 To wander by the lonely stream ; 
 
 Success repays his mild employ, 
 
 And pleasure sheds her brightest beam. 
 
 His finny prey he gladly views. 
 
 The glitt'ring dace, the spangled trout. 
 
 The greedy pope, with varying hues. 
 Together on the grass spread out. 
 
 But trolling for the tyrant pike. 
 He ever finds his greatest pride ; 
 
 This eager fish he joys to strike. 
 The monarch of the fj-esheo'd tide. 
 
 The angler envies no man's joys. 
 
 But his who gains the greatest sport ; 
 
 With peace he dwells far from the noise, 
 And bustling grandeur of a court. 
 
 J. M. L. 
 
 LI NES. 
 Let others crowd the giddy court. 
 
 Of mirth and revelry, 
 The simple joys that angling yields 
 
 Are dearer far to me. S.
 
 ON ANGLING. 109 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Tune. — ''When this old Coat was new." 
 When this old rod was new — 
 
 (My Grandsire cut the bough. 
 And formed its tapering length ; 
 
 Methinks. I see him now !) 
 Old England's noble peasantry 
 
 Were loyal firm and true ; 
 And blythe were English hearts. 
 When this old ro^ was new. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 Our fathers liv'd like men ; 
 They wrought their toil with joy, 
 
 O'er all their native plain ; 
 And merrily foamed the ale. 
 
 Which each goodwife could brew. 
 For all untaxed it ran. 
 
 When this old rod -was new. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 Each farm was snug aud small ; 
 
 Each "rood maintained its man," 
 And Hope shone cut for all ! 
 
 Now, paupers crowd the soil, 
 
 • Since farms grew large and few ; — 
 
 They dared not use us so. 
 When this old rod was new.
 
 llU SONGt., ETC. 
 
 When this old rod was new, 
 
 No treadmills stained the land; 
 No giant jails were built. 
 
 No Union workhouse planned ; 
 The rich looked on the poor. 
 
 As brother stauncli and true, 
 Nor robbed him of his right. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 When this old rod was new, 
 
 No fires illumed the sky. 
 To write in words of flame. 
 
 The poor man' s misery. 
 Employment was his right. 
 
 His wages fair he drew — 
 Oppression was unknown, 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 When this old rod was new, 
 No factory mushroom dared. 
 
 Wring wealth from blood and tears, 
 And hold that wealth unshared ! 
 
 The toil-worn man had friends, 
 Nor mean, nor weak, nor few. 
 
 But nobles of the land. 
 
 When this old rod was new.
 
 ON ANGLING, 111 
 
 When this okl rod was new, 
 
 The sons of toil could ply 
 The "gentle art" right cheerily, 
 
 And cast the treacherous fly ; 
 But time hath wrought sad change, 
 
 A change the land shall rue — 
 No keeper marred the sport. 
 
 When this old rod vras new. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 No British man might die 
 On British ground, 'mid British wealth, 
 
 Of want and misery. 
 No one-eyed lawa were made. 
 
 The rich alone to view ; 
 They did not punish poverty. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 We loved the house of God, 
 And learned in all our griefs. 
 
 To kiss the chastening rod ; 
 The church we sought with joy 
 
 Our pastors served us true — 
 No magistrates were they. 
 
 When this old rod was new.
 
 1 ] 2 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 When this old rod was new, 
 Our fathers held the creed. 
 
 That God will give to all, 
 According to their deed. 
 
 Now, this is all forgot, 
 Or honoured but by few ; 
 
 It was not so, I trow, 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 When this old rod was new — 
 
 By heaven, 'twill not be long. 
 Ere time bring deep revenge. 
 
 For meanest humble wrong ! 
 Her glory on the wane. 
 
 Old England now must rue 
 The policy pursued, 
 
 Since this old rod was new. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 Nay, take it, sir, and give 
 The pittance I demand. 
 
 That my poor bairns may live. 
 It breaks my heart to part. 
 
 And tears mine eyes bedew — 
 I wish I had been born. 
 
 When this old rod was new. 
 
 Palmer Hackle.
 
 ON ANGLING. 113 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Some youthful gallant here perhaps will say, 
 
 This is no pastime for a gentleman, 
 It were more fit at cards and dice to play, 
 
 To use both fence and dancing now and then, 
 Or walk the streets in nice and strange array. 
 Or with coy phrases court his mistris' fan ; 
 A poor delight, with toyl and painful watch, 
 With losse of time a silly fish to catch. 
 
 Let them that list these pastimes then pursue, 
 And on their pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 
 So I the fields and meadows green may view. 
 And by the rivers clear may walke at will, 
 Among the daisies and the violets blew, 
 Red hyacinth, and yellow dafFodill, 
 
 Purple narcissus like the morning rayes. 
 Pale gandergras, and azure culver kayes. 
 
 I count it better pleasure to behold 
 
 Ihe goodly compasse of the lofty skie. 
 And in the midst thereof, like burning gold. 
 
 The flaming chariot of the world's great eye ; 
 The watry clouds that in the ayre uprolled 
 With sundry kinds of painted colours flie ; 
 And f.iir Aurora lifting up her head. 
 All blushing rise from old Titlionous' bed.
 
 134 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Tlie lofty woods, the forests wide and long, 
 
 Adorned with leaves and branches fresh and green. 
 
 In whose cool bow'rs the birds with chanting song 
 Do welcome with their quire the Summer's Queen. 
 
 All these, and many more, of his creation 
 
 That made the Heavens, the angler oft doth see ; 
 And takes therein no little delectation 
 
 To think how strange and wonderful they bee. 
 Framing thereof an inward contemplation. 
 To set his thoughts on other fancies free; 
 
 And whilst he looks on these with joyful eye, 
 His mind is wrapt above the starry skie^ 
 
 John Denny. 1616. 
 
 LINES. 
 Farewell to the maid of my heart. 
 
 Farewell to the cottage and stream ; 
 From thy banks with a tear I depart. 
 
 Thy pleasures they fly as a dream. 
 
 By fancy I dwell on thy smile, 
 
 I dwell on thy smile and thy song ; 
 
 Which often my hours did beguile, 
 As I angled the waters along. 
 
 Once more the fair scene let me view, 
 
 The cottage, the stream, and the grove ; 
 
 Dear valleys, for ever adieu. 
 
 Adieu to the lass of my love. 
 
 J. 11.
 
 ON ANGLING. 115 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 (sung by a party of anglers on the 
 banks op the rtbble, in lancashire.) 
 
 Here's a bumper to rod and to spear ! 
 
 A bumper to challenge a song ! 
 A bumper to those, who, where'er the rill Hows, 
 
 Are spearing and angling along. 
 'Tis good to be steady and cool ; 
 'Tis better to dare than to doubt ; 
 'Tis best to keep clear of the snobs in the rear, 
 And be always thrown in and thrown out. 
 
 Then hurrah for the rod and the spear ! 
 Hurrah for the zest of my song ! 
 
 Hurrah for all those, who, where'er the rill flows. 
 Are spearing and angling along. 
 
 Here's a cheer for the charms of the stream, 
 
 A cheer for a glorious burst, 
 And who would not cheer, when the bold throw 
 the spear. 
 
 For the fearless are always the first. 
 There are some ever in the right place ; 
 
 There are some m ho just fuddle and sot ; 
 There are many vrho love every danger to fear. 
 
 And many, I swear, that do not ! 
 
 Then hurrah for the rod, &c. 
 
 There's a joy when the fish makes his rush, 
 There's a joy when the salmon first bleeds ; 
 
 There's a joy, though lo-day has now glided away, 
 For to-morniw sliall donhlf our deeds.
 
 116 SONGS, ETC 
 
 Here's a sigli for tlie anglers afar, 
 A welcome to those that are here ; 
 
 A health to the whole, who, in spirit and soul. 
 Are friends to the rod and the spear ! 
 
 Then hurrah for the rod, &c. 
 
 ON A YOUNG LADY 
 
 OP THE NAME OF WHITING. 
 
 Sxire Whit'mg is no fasting Dish, 
 Let priests say what they dare ; 
 
 I'd rather have my dainty Fish, 
 Than all their Christmas fare. 
 
 So sweet, so innocent, so free. 
 
 From all that tends to strife ; 
 O ! happy man ! whose lot shall be 
 
 To sroim with her through life. 
 
 Whatever Bait, love e'er could make. 
 
 To catch my fish I'd try ; 
 I'd be a gentle for her sake, 
 
 Or artificial Jiy. 
 
 But Venus, goddess ofthejlood 
 
 Does all my pray'rs deny, 
 And surely Mars cries, save your bloo(| — 
 
 You've other fish tofrt/. 
 
 AN OFFICER.
 
 ON ANGLING. 117 
 
 CANADIAN SONG, ON THE SPEARING 
 OF SALMON. 
 
 Come, launch the light canoe, 
 
 The breeze is fresh and strong ; 
 The summer skies are blue. 
 And 'tis joy to float along ; 
 Away o'er the waters, 
 The bright glancing waters, 
 The Salmon-stock'd waters. 
 As they dance in light and song. 
 
 When the great Creator spoke. 
 
 On the long unmeasured night. 
 The living day-spring broke, 
 
 And the waters own'd His might ; 
 The voice of many waters. 
 Of glad rejoicing waters. 
 The salmon leaping waters, 
 First hailed the dawn of light. 
 
 When foaming billows glide 
 
 To earth's remotest bound ; 
 The rushing ocean tide 
 
 Rolls on the solemn sound ; 
 
 God's voice is in the waters ; 
 The deep mysterious waters ; 
 The fruitful angling waters, 
 Still breathes its tones around. 
 1851.
 
 118 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S THOUGHTS ON THE 
 APPROACH OF WINTER 
 Bright flowers are sinking, 
 Streamlets are shrinking, 
 Now the deej) ravine seems cheerless and sear ; 
 Light clouds are Hying, 
 Cold winds are sighing, 
 The angler is thoughtful, for winter is near. 
 
 Blossoms are cherished, 
 
 Have withered and perished, 
 The streams which we smiled on, are chilly and 
 
 Feelings of sadness, [^drear ; 
 
 O'ershadow our gladness. 
 And make the mind thoughtful, for winter is near. 
 
 Thus all that is fairest. 
 
 And sweetest and rarest. 
 Must shortly be severed, and call for a tear ; 
 
 Then let each emotion, 
 
 Be warm with devotion. 
 Let anglers be thoughtful, for winter is near. 
 Bristol, 181.5. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 With rod and line in hand. 
 Let's usher in the day ; 
 
 The sport's exceeding grand. 
 Arise, make no delay ! 
 
 Now the stream is just before i\^, 
 Away, come — come, away. 
 
 1810.
 
 ON ANGLING. 119 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Me no pleasure shall enamour, 
 
 Swimming in the Drunkard's bowl ; 
 
 Joys that ends in strife and clamour. 
 And in sorrow drown the soul. 
 
 Sports of mighty Nimrod's chusing, 
 
 All your mischiefs I will shun ; 
 Broken bones and grievous bruising, 
 
 Glorious scars by Hunters won. 
 
 Come, then harmless recreation, 
 Holding out the Angler's Reed ; 
 
 Nurse of pleasing Contemplation, 
 By the stream thy wand'rings lead, 
 
 When I view the waters slidinjr 
 To their goal with restless pace, 
 
 Let me think how Time is gliding 
 In his more important race. 
 
 On the flow'ry border sitting, 
 
 I will dip my silken line ; 
 And weak Fish alone outwittiner. 
 
 Curse all other sly design. 
 
 Milky kine, around me grazing. 
 
 Woolly Flocks on distant hills, 
 Join their notes, with mine in praising. 
 
 Him whose hand all creatures fill.
 
 120 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 When musk odours, heart regaling. 
 All the morning mead j)erfume. 
 
 From the new-mown hay exhaling, 
 I'll the Fisher's Wand resume. 
 
 Yea, when autumn's russet mantle. 
 
 Saddens the decaying year, 
 I will Fish, and I will chant, till 
 
 Feeble age shall change my cheer. 
 
 1645. FROM THE ''anglers." 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 Though jest-loving wight, has thought fit to define, 
 In sportive derision, each angling brother. 
 
 As "a stick and string {id est, rod and line,) 
 
 With a worm at one end and di fool at the other." 
 
 Yet believe me, do fool is the man who in quiet 
 Can sit down contented amid the world's din ; 
 
 'Tis fashion's blind vot'ry, who, dwelling in riot. 
 The slave is of folly, of care, and of sin.
 
 ON ANGLING. 12 1 
 
 THE ANGLER'S ADDRESS TO THE 
 SPRING. 
 
 Hailj gentle goddess, blooming Spring, 
 Thy blest return, O^ let nie sing, 
 
 And aid my languid lavs ; 
 Let me not sink in sloth supine, 
 While all creation at thy shrine, 
 
 Its common tribute pays. 
 
 Escap'd from winter's freezing pow'r. 
 Each blossom greets thee, and each flower ; 
 
 And foremost of the train, 
 (By nature's artless hand-maid drest,) 
 The snowdrop comes in lillied vest, 
 
 Prophetic of thy reign. 
 
 Life-giving zephyrs pine through the Hood, 
 And till the rippling rills with food, 
 
 From nature's varied lives ; 
 The sun's direct resolving beams. 
 Pour warmth into the sparkling streams. 
 
 And finny life revives. 
 1765. C. 
 
 CATCH. 
 
 By shady woods and j)urling streams, 
 I spend my life in angling dreams ; 
 And would not for the world be taught 
 To change my charm'd delightful thought ; 
 For who can tranquil pleasures know. 
 Who grubs among the things beh)w ?
 
 122 SONGS ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S LIFE. 
 What pleasures wait the angler's life. 
 
 By streamlet, tide and brook ! 
 The while the fish incessant rise, 
 
 And take his Kirkby hook. 
 His sobei thoughts improve his mind, 
 
 His cares are far away ; 
 Low pride and pomp he leaves behind. 
 
 To breath the sweets of May. 
 In cities there is noise and strife. 
 And every ill that poison life, 
 
 And wear its charms away. 
 
 The courtier hunts for gold and place. 
 
 Oft stoops beneath the man, 
 And sometimes meets that sad disgrace 
 
 Which checks his vital span ; 
 The while the angler free from strife, 
 
 Pursues a calm repose. 
 And lengthens out his thread of life, 
 
 And seldom meets with foes. 
 In nature's smiles he takes a part. 
 Her morning-beams delight his heart. 
 
 And so does evening's close. 
 
 The landscape deals him lessons rare, 
 He marks the constant dove ; 
 
 Who shows him how his race to rear, 
 And teaches peace and love ;
 
 ON ANGLING. 128 
 
 No home-bred jars at eve to find, 
 
 All smile at liis return ; 
 A prudent wife to meet him kind, 
 
 Intent his will to learn. 
 Not so the wanton rake of state, 
 He flees his home and slights his mate, 
 'Till both with hatred burn. 
 
 The bee that sips the vernal flow'rs^ 
 
 And bears their sweets away. 
 Instructs him to improve his hours, 
 
 Against a rainy day ; 
 The ant that toils the autumn through. 
 
 To store her distant hill ; 
 Inspires his thought with projects new. 
 
 To ward off distant ill. 
 The spenthrift no such prudence learns. 
 But squanders all his parent earns, 
 
 By prudence, care, ami skill. 
 
 Sweet Philomel, who, all day long, 
 
 Can harmonise the spray. 
 Instructs him to improve his song. 
 
 And sing life 's cares away ; 
 The lark that mount to heav'ns high gate. 
 
 His pleasing tale impart ; 
 Until we meet the stroke of fate. 
 
 Go wear a cheerful heart ;
 
 124 . SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Nor head the dull fanatic thing, 
 Whose errors often points a sting. 
 
 Of fraud, disguise, and art. 
 
 Thus fares the angler day by day 
 
 Throughout the rolling year. 
 While knaves, like rotten fruit decay, 
 
 Nor claim a parting tear ; 
 Then let us praise the angler's life, 
 
 And thus in chorus sing ; 
 May anglers ever 'scape from strife, 
 
 Nor feel oppression's sting ; 
 And may the lively girls they wed. 
 Ne'er dishonour board or bed. 
 
 With peasant, prince, or king. 
 
 GLEE. 
 
 Hark ! anglers of the North, 
 Come let us fish and sing. 
 
 To Bacchus and Appollo, 
 Now your offering bring. 
 
 Jolly Bacchus does invite us ; 
 
 Mirth and humour do unite us ; 
 
 Angling songs will merry make us ; 
 
 Melancholy will forsake us. 
 
 Chester, 1820
 
 ON ANGLING. I'lii 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Some morning now with balm unwontetl fraught, 
 
 Forth from its nook your angle rod is brought, 
 
 The joints well iitted, line looked duly o'er. 
 
 And flies selected from your ample store ; 
 
 Not this the hour, the gleamy hour, that brings 
 
 That swarm gregarious forth of speckled ^ings, 
 
 But the uncertain year demands to choose 
 
 The plainest hackles and the most sober hues ; 
 
 Fresh blows the west-wind on your glowing cheek. 
 
 As hurrying forth the well-known reach you seek ; 
 
 Adown the mead your eager footsteps strain, 
 
 Each boyish transport half-revived again ; 
 
 Nor yet the trout the swifter streams have won, 
 
 But where the earlier shadows feel the sun, 
 
 Excursive roave, and in the insect brood 
 
 Their first emerging find abundant food. 
 
 Light falls your line before the favouring breeze, 
 
 Light as the wither'd leaf from autumn trees; 
 
 And Oh ! when some judicious cast, 
 
 In the fair ripple, brings him up at last ; 
 
 Some master fish, who many a bygone day 
 
 Has turned disdainful from the prey away ; 
 
 Less guarded now the treacherous bait he takes, 
 
 And wildly floundering the wild river shakes ; 
 
 Or downward darts, or high with sudden spring 
 
 Vaults into air ; again the reel must sing 
 
 Till moor'd at length beneath your guiding hand, 
 
 His broad gills rest uj)on the level land. 
 
 1850. John Lloy:).
 
 126 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 LUCY WHITE. 
 
 Oil Till's clear streams that run so deep. 
 Where oft with joy I've herded sheep, 
 And with my rod and line so light, 
 First caught the smiles of Lucy White ; 
 She was the belle of all around, 
 With lightsome gait she tripp'd the ground ; 
 With eyes, so bright, and dimpl'd chin, 
 She mov'd the sacred fires within. 
 
 My sheep I've left, and wily fly, 
 To scan her cot, and pass her by ; 
 With cheerful smile and wistful look. 
 She trac'd my steps along the brook ; 
 And once when by the water side, 
 I vow'd that sbe should be my bride ; 
 She blush'd assent, what pure delight ! 
 So gain'd the hand of Lucy White. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 If any so wise is 
 That angling despises. 
 Let him grunt on his trade and be sober ; 
 While we fish and sing. 
 In one constant spring, 
 He shall droop like tlie trees in October. 
 
 J. S.
 
 ON ANGLING. 127 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF TWO YOUTHFUL 
 ANGLERS. 
 
 He gazed witli admiration unsurpassed 
 Upon the landscape of the sun bright vale, 
 Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
 In softened prespective; and more than once 
 Praised the consumate harmony serene 
 Of gravity and elegance — diffused 
 Around the Mansion and its whole domain ; 
 Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
 And female care — 'A blessed lot is yours !' 
 He said, and with that exclamation breathed 
 A tender sigh ; — but suddenly the door 
 Opening, with eager haste two lusty Boys 
 Appeared, — confusion checking their delight-, 
 — Not Brothers they in feature or attire. 
 But fond companions, so I guessed, in field, 
 And by the river-side — from which they come, 
 A pair of Anglers, laden with their spoil. 
 One bears a willow-panner on his back, 
 The Boy of plainer garb, and more abashed 
 In countenance, — more distant and retired. 
 Twin might the Other be to that fair Girl 
 Who bounded tow'rds us from the garden mount. 
 Triumphant entry this to him ! — for see, 
 Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone. 
 On whose capacious siu-face is outspread 
 Large store of gleaming crimson -spot ted trouts ; 
 Ranged side i>y side, in regular ascent,
 
 128 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 One after one, still lessening by degrees 
 Up to the (Ivvarf that tops the pinnacle. 
 Upon the Board he lays the sky-blue stone 
 With its rich spoil ; — their numbers he proclaims, 
 Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragg'd. 
 And where the very monarch of the brook. 
 After long struggle, had escaped at last — 
 Stealing alternately at them and us 
 (As doth his Comrade too) a look of pride. 
 And, verily, the silent Creatures made 
 A splendid sight, together thus exposed ; 
 Dead — but not sullied or deformed by death, 
 That seemed to pity what he could not spare. 
 But oh ! the animation in the mien 
 Of these two Boys ! Yea in the very words 
 With which the young Narrator was inspired, 
 When, as our questions led, he told at large 
 Of that day's prowess ! Him might I compare, 
 His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence. 
 To a bold Brook which splits for better speed, 
 And, at the self-same moment, works its way 
 Through many channels, ever and anon 
 Parted and reunited ; his Compeer 
 To the still Lake, whose stillness is to the eye 
 As beautiful, as grateful to the mind. 
 — But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
 Be likened ? She whose countenance and air 
 Unite the graceful <|ualities of both, 
 Even as the shares the jjride and joy of both ? 
 FROM Wordsworth's "Excursion."
 
 ON ANGLING. 129 
 
 THE GUDGEON. 
 
 Loe, in a little boat wliene one dotli stand, 
 That to a willow bougli the while is tied. 
 And with a pole doth stir and raise the sand, 
 Whereat the gentle streame doth softly slide; 
 And then with slender line and rod in hand, 
 The eager bite not long he doth abide. 
 Well loaded is his line, his hooke but small, 
 A good big cork to bear the stream with all. 
 His bait the least red worme that may be found, 
 And at the bottome it doth always lie ; 
 Whereat the greedy Gudgeon bites so sound, 
 That hooke and all he swalloweth by and by. 
 See how he strikes, and pulls them up aS round, 
 As if new store the place did still supply ; 
 And when the bit doth die, or bad doth prove, 
 Then to another place he doth remove. 
 
 John Denny. 1620. 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 Around cap-a-pie, with baskets, bags, and rods, 
 Worms, maggots, brass, lead, the angler's god ; 
 More flies than Esmeraldas land endures, 
 (Poor Piscatorius noble luck insures.) 
 Come home, his looks this woeful tale pronounce, 
 The luggage half a Ion ; — the fish half an ounce. 
 
 K
 
 ] 30 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S MUSTER. 
 
 Haste, anglers, arise, from your j)illo\rs arise ! 
 The sun has set out in his chariot of skies, 
 And the hill must be mounted, the valley be past, 
 Ere our hooks shall be baited, our flies shall be cast ; 
 Brother anglers, be stirring, and shake off night's 
 
 dream. 
 For the red trout is leaping in Avon-dale's stream. 
 
 The south wind, like sighs from a fair maiden's breast, 
 Just ripples the waters that else were at rest ; 
 The cloud, like a frown from that fair maid, scarce 
 
 seen, 
 Just shadows the surface that else were serene ; 
 Whilst honey drops, type of the lovely girl's tear. 
 Just stain the fair streamlet that else were so clear. 
 
 The meadoMS are deck'd in their garlands of pride, 
 The sheep-bells are tinkling the brown hill beside. 
 The trees are bedizened in livery of green, 
 And the birds they have roosted aneath such fair 
 
 screen : 
 Then bestir, brother anglers, for nature has bred 
 Her season for you from the deep river's bed. 
 
 Then with net, and with basket, the badges we prize. 
 With a can of fresh Laits, and a book of choice flies. 
 With hope as our nipssniate, with skill as our guide.
 
 ON ANGLING. 131 
 
 With good eye, steady hand, and long patience beside. 
 We'll away, we'll away, and the world's pride forget 
 Deeming that its best jewel we land in our net. 
 
 Away, to the fisherman's muster avray ! 
 
 For the sun rideth on, and he brooks no delay : 
 
 Then ply the dun fly while his glory is on — 
 
 We can ply the red wine when his glory is gone ; 
 
 The bowl knows no sweetener to glad the free heart. 
 
 As the triumphs we win at our innocent art. 
 
 The feast board is spread in our old brother's hall, 
 The feasters are met at that old brother's call ; 
 And the old wine is opened, the old stories told. 
 And the old sport is toasted which ne'er will be old ; 
 And hearts they leap gladly, and eyes cheerly gleam, 
 For the red trout is captured by Avon-dale's stream. 
 Salisbury, May 22. 1824. J. S. 
 
 LINES. 
 Bring th y rod to the peaceful rill. 
 
 The streams that whisper near, 
 Where sweet birds all summer do sing, 
 
 In carols loud and clear. 
 Should thy heart be oppress'd witli love, 
 
 Or tender friends deplore ; 
 The flowing and murm'ring streams i'il prove 
 
 A cure for inward sore. 
 
 1802. K.
 
 132 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S GLEE. 
 Right socially we live, and never disagree, 
 
 Troll away, troll away, my boys ! 
 Our hearts like our purses, are open, light, and free, 
 And if the fish bite, who so happy as we. 
 Or who feel such innocent joys .'' 
 Each angler takes his glass, 
 To toast some fav'rite lass 
 For whom love's torch is burning. 
 
 The merry catch goes round, or the care-killing glee ; 
 Time employing cheerily 
 Life enjoying merrily. 
 Free from discord, noise, and strife. 
 Is an honest angler's life ; 
 For his rod and line by day are the source of true 
 
 delight. 
 And a cheerful welcome home is his sure reward at 
 night. 
 Troll, troll, troll away, — troll, troll, troll away. 
 Troll away, troll away, my boys ! 
 
 S. Maunder. 
 
 UNCLE WILL TO UNCLE JOHN. 
 
 (scotch ballad, 1702.) 
 When cauld winter is past. 
 
 And the green ice is gane. 
 While ilk curler lays bye 
 
 His bonnie whinstane ;
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 And the win' frae the south 
 Comes kindly and warm, 
 
 Ah ! then is the time 
 For the fisher to arm 
 
 Wi' his rod and his creel. 
 And be off to the burn, 
 
 Gushing fou to the brim, 
 Wi' deep pools at ilk turn. 
 
 When the fields change their hue. 
 
 And the govvan is seen 
 Glistin' bright through the leaves 
 
 O, the grass growing green . 
 When the bumbee is trying 
 
 His wing near the byke, 
 Ah ! then is the time 
 
 To jump o'er hedge and dyke. 
 To make a short cut 
 
 To the often fish'd linn, 
 Where the silver-mail'd sammon 
 
 Aye I'ests in his rin. 
 
 When the river is clearing, 
 
 The snavv broo runs out, 
 An' the flickeim niiges 
 
 Are temptin' the trout ; 
 When the rosy-faced callan' 
 
 Is snediu his wan. 
 Ah ! this is the time 
 
 That wi' worms in his ban' 
 
 1^3
 
 134 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 He run afF frae the schuU, 
 Wi' some thread and a preen. 
 
 To that hole where he saw 
 Hie big baggies yestreen. 
 
 When the south-M'est win' blaws, 
 
 And the clouds, as they pass. 
 Are varying the shade 
 
 And the wide-waving grass ; 
 When the ripplin' waves hurry 
 
 Accross the deep pool, 
 Ah ! this is the time 
 
 To be steady and cool. 
 An' to wave your rod deftly ; 
 
 Ve're flees mana whistle. 
 But fa' on the streamlet 
 
 Like down o' the thistle. 
 
 When ye've gien twa-three waps, 
 
 An' a fine thumpin grilse 
 Has lap at ye twice, 
 
 And made flutter your pulse ; 
 When at last ye have heukH him. 
 
 An' he's aft' to the deep. 
 Ah ! then take your time. 
 
 An' let him tak' his sweep ; 
 Gie him plenty o' line, 
 
 An' tak' tent o' your graith, 
 For ye 're gut no sae Strang, 
 
 An' he'll sure tviie his breath.
 
 ON ANGLING. 135 
 
 When wi' fair skilly fechin' 
 
 Ye've warsled him out, 
 A dainty three-pounder, 
 
 A bonnie sea trout, 
 Frae the brine freshly run, 
 
 An' jist fit for your creel, 
 Ah ! then is the time. 
 
 Like a warm hearted chiel, 
 To keep mind o' a friend. 
 
 Wha will share in your glee. 
 When he joins you some Sabbath, 
 
 At kipper or tea. 
 
 W. H. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE BACK OP AN OLD COPT OF 
 THE "COMPLETK AnGLER," 1802. 
 
 Push about the bottle, lads, 
 Round the circle let it pass ; 
 Down with baskets, and you'r ^gads, 
 And quaff off your social glass. 
 
 . When dull cares disturb the soul, 
 To the river banks repair ; 
 Throw the fly, or minnow troll ; 
 This u'ill keep vn from despair.
 
 13G SONGS, ETC. 
 
 BARBEL FISHING IN THE THAMES. 
 
 Broader rivers please us then. 
 
 Where the voice of watermen. 
 
 And bargemen eke, we often hear, 
 
 (As they laugh and joke, — or swear,) 
 
 Sounding long from the shore, 
 
 As they ply the dripping oar ; 
 
 The river that we have in view. 
 
 Is Thames, from Windsor down to Kew. 
 
 How pleasant in a dog-day sun. 
 
 When all on land looks dry and dun. 
 
 To spend the day upon the river. 
 
 On whose banks the osiers quiver ; 
 
 In a punt for barbel fishing, 
 
 (Or anything not worth the dishing,) 
 
 With a merry companie. 
 
 Not more than nine or less than three. 
 
 How quick the cheerful hours do pass, 
 
 How quickly circulates the glass ! 
 
 Ere Phoebus half his course has run. 
 
 The Sherry's out, the Veal pie done ; 
 
 But still there's bread and cheese, and brandy, 
 
 And plenty of cold water handy ; 
 
 And stout galore ; cigars abound — 
 
 The box at morn contained a pound.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 Thus we spend the time, not thinking 
 Of the fish, but eating, drinking, 
 Merry making, funning, joking, 
 Hailing watermen, and smoking ; 
 For a bite not even wishing. 
 Enjoying everything but fishing, 
 At length, alas, the brandy's out. 
 The weeds used up, and no more stout ! 
 
 The setting sun's last rays beam 
 Is lingering on the rippling stream, 
 While on the pools the osiers dark, 
 Cast dark their shadows from the bank. 
 'Tis time that we were all ashore. 
 We never spent such a day before ; 
 What have we caught, look in the well. 
 Or ask the coachman can he tell ? 
 
 The scorching sun has ta'en, we fear. 
 The tender skin off every ear ; 
 And we can see that each man's nose 
 , Is budding like the damask rose ; 
 But now for bed, of fish to dream 
 To-morrow in another stream. 
 
 W. A. C. 
 The Cea, June 28, 1846. 
 
 137
 
 138 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE HEALTHYNESS OF ANGLING. 
 
 But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale. 
 
 Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue. 
 
 Not less delightful the prolifiic stream 
 
 Afford. The crystal rivelet that o'er 
 
 A stony channel rolls its rapid surge. 
 
 Swarms with the silver fry. Such through the bounds 
 
 Of pastoral Stafford runs the brawling Trent ; 
 
 Such Eden, spring from Cumbria mountains, such 
 
 The Esk o'erhung with wood ; and such the stream. 
 
 On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air; 
 
 Liddal till now, except in doric lays, 
 
 Tuned to her murmurs by her love — such swains. 
 
 Unknown in song ; though not a purer stream. 
 
 Through woods more flowery, more romantic groves. 
 
 Rolls toward the Western main ; hail sacred flood. 
 
 May still thy hospitable swains be blest 
 
 In rural innocence ; thy mountains still 
 
 Teem with the fleecy race ; thy tuneful woods 
 
 For ever flourish ; and thy vales look gay 
 
 With planted meadows, and the golden grain ! 
 
 Oft with thy blooming sons, when life was new, 
 
 Sportive and petulant, and charmed with toys, • 
 
 In thy transparent eddies have I laved : 
 
 Oft traced with patient steps thy fairy banks. 
 
 With the well-imitated fly to hook 
 
 The eager trout, and with the slender line 
 
 And yielding rod solicit to the share 
 
 The struggling panting prey ; while vernal clouds —
 
 ON ANGLING. 189 
 
 And tepid gales obscured the ruffled pool, 
 
 And from the deeps called forth the wanton swarm. 
 
 Formed on the Samian School, or those of Irid. 
 
 There are who think these pastimes scarce humane ; 
 
 Yet in my mind, (and not relentless I) 
 
 His life is pure that wears no fouler stain. 
 
 ARinSTRONS. 
 
 LINES. 
 Blow, Zephyr, and whisper the maid, 
 
 That I sigh at her cruel delay ; 
 O, tell her I'm down in the glade. 
 
 Angling my moments away. 
 
 'Twas her beauty gave life to the stream, 
 And filled my heart with delight; 
 
 Her voice, like a fanciful dream — 
 Her smile that gave pleasure to life. 
 
 O, let her not flee from my eye. 
 Or rob me of pleasure so fair ; 
 The streamlet runs on with a sigh. 
 And the rod is thrown down in despair. 
 
 C.
 
 140 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE FAIR MAID AND ANGLER. 
 
 It was on a summer's morning 
 
 In the pleasant mouth of May, 
 Whe Phoebus bright, he show'd his light. 
 
 To the Boyne I took my way. 
 Most carlessly, like an Angler, 
 
 In the stream my bait I threw, 
 When this charming lovely fair one 
 
 Appeared in my view. 
 
 In the cool shade of this harbour. 
 
 In the forenoon of the day. 
 This maid she came a bathing 
 
 To where I chanced to stray. 
 When I saw this maid at first. 
 
 My frame she did confound. 
 Thus, my line and hook went with the brook. 
 
 And never yet was found. 
 
 Then I approached this damsel fair. 
 
 Saying matchless Queen of Troy, 
 Are you Venus or Diana sent — 
 
 The Angler to decoy ; 
 Or, you the morning star, 
 
 That rises in the east. 
 Or, Juno bright that rules the night. 
 
 When lovers are at rest.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 141 
 
 In a tremour she made answer, 
 
 Sir, dont me tantalize — 
 I am none of those you mention — 
 
 Your praises I despise ; 
 I am but a shepherd's daughter, 
 
 That came milking to the Boyne, 
 Your company withdraw from me — 
 
 Your lines and hooks go find. 
 
 My lines and hooks I value not, love. 
 
 Gold will purchase more, 
 I am so captivated 
 
 By you my Villa Store ; 
 I have fifty acres of good land 
 
 Down by the Boyne water side. 
 Love don't be shy, with me comply. 
 
 And I'll make you my lawful bride. 
 
 Sir, acquaint your father of the same, 
 
 A match for you he'll find. 
 In some wealthy farmer's daughter. 
 
 More pleasing to his mind ; 
 When we'll agree you'll plainly see, 
 
 And equally you'll find. 
 So, I'll mind my sheep, my lambs I'll keep, 
 
 Till Providence proves kind.
 
 14- sjONOS ETC. 
 
 Now to conclude and finish. 
 
 I mean to stop my pen 
 In hopes all other fair maids 
 
 Who stands and may come in, 
 That this may be a warning 
 
 To all young female kind, 
 The handsome shepherd's daughter 
 
 That came walking to the Bovne. 
 
 GLEE. 
 
 SUNG AT A FISHING CLUB IN THE NORTH 
 OF YORKSHIRE. 
 
 Away with dull care, and rigid frugality, 
 
 This is the moment for mirth and delight, 
 And he who would count on the woes of mortality, 
 Banish for ever, be out of our sight ! 
 Then push round the bowl. 
 And let every soul 
 That can feel inspired m ith the rod and the line. 
 With a heart full of glee. 
 And a loud three-times three, 
 Dr'uk lium|!ers to xinglers, :uid the god of the vine.
 
 ON ANGLING. HS 
 
 THE WISH. 
 Here's good luck to the gad, 
 And success to each friend on't. 
 If ever prayer of uiine 
 Can have interest above, 
 May they run their line smoothly. 
 Nor soon see the end on't. 
 And their course be as clear 
 As the streams that they love. 
 
 May the current of life still epread 
 Glittering before them, 
 And their joys ever rise 
 As the season draws nigh ; 
 And if e'er, — as 'twill happen — 
 Misfortune comes o'er them. 
 Oh ! still may her dart 
 Fall as light as their fly. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Yes, I own, I love to see 
 Old anglers pleasant, blyth, and free, 
 I love the gentle that light can bound, 
 But when old age, jocose through gray, 
 Can angle nimbly with the gay, 
 'Tis plain to all the jovial throng. 
 Though hoar the head, the heart is young. 
 
 1817.
 
 144 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 LINES. 
 Sung at an Angling Club at Richmond. 
 Fill, boys, and drink. 
 
 Wine will banish sorrow, 
 Come and drink the bottle out, 
 We'll have more to-morrow. 
 
 We feel no slavish fear. 
 
 In happiness meet here; 
 Cherish each other, lik e brother and brother ; 
 Let this be our toast. 
 The true angler's boast. 
 
 Success and good will to each other. 
 
 1840. 
 
 J. DAVOR'S DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING 
 A LINE. 
 
 Then get good hair, so that it be not black. 
 Neither of mare nor gelding let it be. 
 Nor of the tireling jade that bears the pack. 
 But of some lusty horse, or courser free. 
 Whose bushy tail upon the ground doth track, 
 Like blazing comet that sometimes we see.
 
 ON ANGLING. 145 
 
 KILLING THE PIKE. 
 
 The greedy pike lies basking cool. 
 Beneath the shade in yonder pool. 
 
 Alert to seize his food ; 
 By skilful hand is hurled the bait, 
 To lure the tyrant to his fate, 
 
 And drag him from the flood. 
 
 The shining tempter o'er him flies; 
 He glares around with hungry eves. 
 
 And rushes on the prey ; 
 Then moves along with lordly pace, 
 To seek some snug and lonely place. 
 
 Where he may dine to-day. 
 
 At last he stops, and sinking deep, 
 Seems for ten minutes fast asleep, 
 
 In sweet indulgence lost. 
 I'll vake him soon as you shall see, 
 And let him know that verily. 
 
 He's dining to his cost ! 
 
 The time is up ! I turn my reel. 
 And wind my line until I feel 
 
 I've got my distance right ; 
 Then, holding firmly, let him dash, 
 And dive and plunge, and lash and plash, 
 
 And flght his bravest fight.
 
 14C SONGS ETC. 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah, he rushes on I 
 Pay out the line, or he'll be ffone ! 
 
 There — check him smartly now I 
 Well (lone — he turns upon his track. 
 And, plunging, clashes madly back — 
 
 By Jove, a glorious row ! 
 
 Away, away, he'll take his fling ! 
 *Tis hard to snap a slackened string ; 
 
 I'll teaze him when he blows. 
 See there, he stops to breathe, again 
 The strong stiff rod puts on the strain. 
 
 And leaves him no repose. 
 
 Another plunge ! but feebler much ; 
 I hold him with a firmer clutch. 
 
 And play him nearer shore : 
 The strong hook fixed with murderous grasp. 
 Lifts him in sight ; and see — that gasp 
 
 Tells he can fight no more. 
 
 *»■ 
 
 The struggle's o'er, the work is done ; 
 All bootless every frantic run ; 
 
 In vain he strains the line . 
 Ah, ah ! I feel I have him fast. 
 And look, I've landed him at last ; 
 
 He's mine, he's mine, he's mine ! 
 
 Palmer Hackle.
 
 ON ANGLING. 1^7 
 
 SPRING MEETING OF THE CLVll 
 
 OF ANGLERS, 
 
 Hail, AngUug pleasure. 
 The heart's dearest treasure, 
 In musical measure 
 
 We make the hall ring ; 
 Since life is fleeting. 
 From fate no retreating, 
 Enjoy, then, our meeting 
 
 To greet the new Spring. 
 
 Sure 'tvFould be treason. 
 Against sense and reason, 
 At this happy season 
 
 Our joy to restrain ; 
 For sorrows and sadness 
 Is nothing but madness, 
 When innocent gladness 
 
 Solicits the strain. 
 
 Wake the loud chorus. 
 Sport is before us. 
 Streamlets invite us 
 
 Their pleasures to sing ; 
 Then join in repeating 
 Our wish for completing 
 The plan of our meeting 
 
 To hail the new Spring.
 
 148 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 SONG 
 
 The lassie by the streamlet side. 
 She was so sweet and fair. 
 
 That oft I took the rod aside. 
 To drive away my care. 
 
 With eje askance, I glisten'd by 
 Her dwelling, near the stream ; 
 
 My tackle and my bonny fly, 
 But prov'd an empty dream. 
 
 The flow'ry banks and rippling rill. 
 Whose music charms the ear ; 
 
 No longer my desire could fill, 
 Since Jeanie prov'd so dear. 
 
 I vow'd each day no trout I'd kill. 
 Nor salmon tempt with fly ; 
 
 Till my love, by the purling rill. 
 My merits should descry. 
 
 But ah, she look'd so shy and blate. 
 My heart vvas like to faint ; 
 
 So many hours she'd make me wait, 
 'Twould vex a very saint. 
 
 Down by the dell she'd slowly move. 
 With coyness in her looks. 
 
 As if the wayward path of love 
 Lay straight among the hooks.
 
 ON ANGLING. 149 
 
 When once I sj)ied Iier come behind, 
 
 The rod I threw aside ; 
 I swore, with honest heart and mind, 
 
 That she should be my bride. 
 
 " Bid me," I said, " and I will live 
 
 Thy worshipper to be ; 
 Or bid me love, and I will give 
 
 A loving heart to thee. 
 
 " A heart as warm, a heart as kind, 
 
 A heart as true and free. 
 As in the world's domain you'll find. 
 
 That heart I'll give to thee. 
 
 " Bid that heart stay, and it will stav^ 
 
 To honour thy decree ; 
 Or bid it languish quite away. 
 
 So shall it do for thee. 
 
 " Bid me despair, and I'll despair 
 
 Under the cypress tree ; 
 Or bid me die, and I will die. 
 
 E'en death — 1(» die for thee. 
 
 " Thou art my life, my hive, my heart, 
 
 The very eyes of me ; 
 And hast command of every part^ 
 
 To live and die for thee.
 
 150 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 " Deceptive fly shall ne'er be thrown. 
 From honour's path to wile ; 
 
 Nor rankling seeds of sorrow sown, 
 Nor honest heart beguile." 
 
 MA V 
 
 It was the charming month of May, 
 When all the flow'rs were fresh and gay. 
 One morning by the break of day, 
 The youthful angler rose. 
 
 From peaceful slumbers he awoke. 
 Girt on his basket, and he took 
 A ramble down the stream, to look 
 If in right angling trim. 
 
 The feather'd people you might see 
 Perch'd all around on every tree. 
 In sweetest notes of melody. 
 
 To hail the joyous youth. 
 
 X. Y., 1816.
 
 ON ANGLING. 15 J 
 
 THE OLD ANGLER. 
 
 My grandsire is an angler old, 
 
 Life's wheels move dull and slow, 
 His cheeks are wan and wrinkled deep, 
 
 His hair as white as snow ; 
 His eye is dimmed of all its fire. 
 
 His heart of all its glee. 
 And nought does he the live-long day. 
 
 But moan most piteously. 
 
 They say he's in his dotage now, 
 
 But I remember well, 
 When he to cousin Tom and me, 
 
 Would pleasant stories tell ; 
 And as we clambered up his knee 
 
 He'd lay his pijie away. 
 And, by the hour, fish o'er again, 
 ^ Scenes of his early days. 
 
 One story — it was our youthful pride — 
 
 We begged he'd tell it still : 
 How he with Rodger, side by side, 
 
 Caught salmon in the rill ; 
 The leaps they made, the tugs they gave. 
 
 The spn'ngings up in air. 
 The stirring scenes which mark'd their fall — 
 
 I n language choice and rare.
 
 152 SONGS, ETC, 
 
 Grave was his face, but oft time 
 
 No fun liis features lacked, 
 His social^glass he dearly loved, 
 
 And pleasant jokes he cracked ; 
 He had the fashion, eveiy year. 
 
 Of going to the brook. 
 With rod in hand, and creel on back, 
 
 To get a farewell look. 
 
 THE LAMENT, 
 
 Swift stream, if e'er thy limpid How,, 
 Should meet the man 1 prize. 
 
 The angler tell there's tears of woe, 
 Just flown from Damon's eyes. 
 
 And thou, O zephyr, quickly fly, 
 
 And lull his soul to rest ; 
 The angler tell thou art a sigh. 
 
 Just flown from Damon's breast. 
 
 If tears to soothe him nought avail. 
 Nor sigh can singly move, 
 
 Then, both united, tell the tale. 
 Of hapless Damon's love. 
 
 R. G.
 
 ON ANGLING. 15r? 
 
 THE INVITATION. 
 
 The rising sun, with ruddy h>cks, 
 
 Is smiling o'er the sky. 
 And brightly shine the silvery clouds 
 
 With fringe of golden dye ; 
 The lark, among their airy folds, 
 
 Is singing shrill and deep, 
 And with his melting mehidy. 
 
 Has lulled the wind asleep ; 
 While linnets in the dewy bush. 
 
 That woos the morning beams. 
 All lightly sit, as seeming lothe 
 
 To break the pearly gems. 
 
 Then come, my youthful angler, con 
 
 And put your rod in plight. 
 The wind is fair, the water prime. 
 
 All beckon to delight. 
 With lightsome step and buoyant air, 
 
 (Ne'er heed your, mighty dream), 
 Come, throw our feath'ry flies upon 
 
 The pure artd rippling stream. 
 Pleasures rare await us there. 
 
 We cannot — cannot name ; 
 The birds invite us fi-om the trees, 
 
 Come, let us learn of them. 
 
 1825.
 
 154 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 MR. BARKERS DIRECTIONS FOR FLY- 
 FISHING. 
 
 A brother of the angle must always be sped. 
 With three black Palmers, and also two red, 
 And all made with Hackles, in a cloudy day, 
 Or in windy weather, angle you may. 
 
 But morning and evening, if the day be bright, 
 And the chief point is to keep out of sight. 
 In the month of IMay, none but the May-fly, 
 For every month one, is a pitiful lie. 
 
 The black hawthorn-tly must be very small. 
 And the sandy hog's-hair is sure, best of all ; 
 For the mallard wing i\Iay-fly and Peacock's train, 
 Will look like the Flesh-fly to kill trout amain. 
 
 The Oak- fly is good, if it have a brown wing; 
 So is the Grasshopper that in July doth sing : 
 With a green body make him on a middle-sized 
 
 hook, 
 But when you have caught Fish, then play the 
 
 good Cook. 
 
 Once more, my good brother, I'll speak in thy ear ; 
 Hogs, red Cows, and Bear's wool, to float best 
 
 appear ; 
 And so doth your Fur, if rightly it fall ; 
 But always remember, make two, and make all. 
 W50.
 
 ON ANGLING. 155 
 
 CANADIAN ANGLING SONG. 
 
 The northern lights are flashing, 
 
 On the rapid's restless flow ; 
 And o'er the light wave dashing, 
 Swift darts the light canoe. 
 The merry anglers come, 
 
 " What cheer — what cheer — 
 We've salmon here." 
 " Hurrah, you're welcome home." 
 
 The biythesome horn is sounding. 
 
 And the angler's loud halloo, 
 And joyous steps are bounding 
 To meet the brisk canoe. 
 
 " Hurrah — the angler's come," 
 And the dells ring out 
 To their merry shout. 
 As they drag the salmon home. 
 
 The hearth is brightly burning, 
 
 The rustic board is spread ; 
 To greet the sire returning. 
 The children leave the bed. 
 
 With laugh and shout they come — 
 That merry band 
 To grasp his hand. 
 And bid him welcome home.
 
 156 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 When I desire to muse alone 
 On present things, or things bygone, 
 When fancy soars on pinion high. 
 And can an unreal world descry ; 
 To dream, and walk by river's brink. 
 To argue, ponder, or to think, 
 
 For such joys and mental treasures. 
 Nought so sweet as angling pleasures. 
 
 When I desire to move alone. 
 To brace the mind and give it tone, 
 To draw it from its toils and care. 
 From sorrow sad, or deep despair, 
 To fix it on those aspects bright 
 On which its movements shed a light ; 
 Then we recognise the treasures, 
 Nought so sweet as angling pleasures. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Come, let us laugh, let us angle and sing. 
 The winter is gone, and here is the Spring ; 
 We care not a feather 
 For wind nor for weather. 
 By night and by day. 
 We'll fish and we'll play. 
 Comparing our flies together. 
 
 S, S.
 
 ON ANGLING. lo' 
 
 THE ANGLER'S HOME. 
 
 I have climb'd by the mountain rills, 
 
 Where summer breezes flow ; 
 And I have lov'd the glade which guides 
 
 Through yonder greenwood low. 
 But mark the spot most dear to me. 
 
 And where I love to roam. 
 It's down by streamlet side, to watch 
 
 My tidy, tidy home. 
 
 My tidy cot, its roof of straw. 
 
 Beneath yon thorn I see ; 
 Yon thorny bush which shelter yields 
 
 My wife and children three, 
 A lovely copsewood skirts my cot. 
 
 And waters gush with foam. 
 In which the trout and salmon sport 
 
 Close to my tidy home. 
 
 When gentle curls and cloudy sky. 
 
 Call forth the rod and line, 
 I leave my cot, with cheerful steps. 
 
 To <;ast the fly so fine. 
 I know the precious things I leave. 
 
 While by the stream I roam ; 
 I know there's loving hearts within 
 
 My tidy, tidy home.
 
 158 SONGS, £TC. 
 
 INVITATION TO LONDON ANGLERS. 
 
 To you, true fishers, uow in town, 
 
 We rustic lads do write. 
 And do invite you to come down. 
 
 To taste of our delight. 
 The streams are fine, the fields are gay, 
 ' And 'tis the charming month of May. 
 
 The rills are now in all their pride, 
 Deck'd round in lovely green ; 
 
 The flies, in various colours dyed, 
 Adorn the lovely scene. 
 
 Our fishing friends from far appear, 
 
 To welcome in the angling year. 
 
 We'll show you all our streams and meads, 
 Our pleasant dells and springs. 
 
 And lead you to the tuneful shades. 
 Where Philomela sings ; 
 
 Music — which hath a deeper thrill 
 
 Than city strains — the soul can fill. 
 
 Buxton, 1820. 
 
 ANGLERS. 
 
 We are all just like brother and brother, 
 And this is our toast. 
 The free angler's boast. 
 
 Success and good will to each other.
 
 ON ANGLING, 159 
 
 THE FISHING BARK. 
 
 Let landsmen boast of pleasures, 
 
 From the turf or hunting game, 
 Let sportsmen of all measures 
 
 Go boast their glorious fame ; 
 Let carriages that roll in parks 
 
 Run smooth for gentle ride, 
 What are they all to the Fishing Barks, 
 
 That sport upon the tide ? 
 
 With well-spread sail and mod'rate breeze. 
 
 The sky serene and cleai-. 
 How pleasantly she ploughs the seas, 
 
 How bracing is the air 
 All pleasure seems to centre here. 
 
 The heart is full of joy ; 
 The fisher envies none elsewhere, 
 
 Content with his employ. 
 
 The huntsman, with his dog and ^un, 
 
 May hunt the doe and hare ; 
 The horsemen may their races run. 
 
 The nobles drive for air. 
 The fishermen, with line and net. 
 
 Can hunt whene'er they M'ish, 
 Or run a race when they are set. 
 
 Their game they are the fish.
 
 160 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 The landsmen may liave houses strong, 
 
 To shelter from the blast; 
 They also may have purses long, 
 
 In banks, to keep them fast. 
 The tisherniHU has also these, 
 
 A cabin does him hold, 
 His bank is in the deep, deep se;A, 
 
 The fishes are his gold. 
 
 His bark w'll live in good sea.room. 
 
 When howling winds do blow ; 
 A house \v\\\ fall before the storm. 
 
 Whilst he tosses to and fro. 
 Dangers are upon the land. 
 
 Just as they are at sea; 
 So, landsmen all, you'll understand, 
 
 The deep sea bark for me. 
 
 THE ANTICIPATION. 
 
 Come, follow me right down the lea, 
 
 And hail the blushing morn ; 
 Straight forward go, the stream's below. 
 
 Hard by the stately thorn. 
 We soon shall fill, from out the rill, 
 
 Our baskets with fine trout ; 
 
 Then up tlie brae, to see John Day, 
 
 Close with a merry route. 
 
 R. R., 1818.
 
 ON ANGLINO* 161 
 
 SONG. 
 
 No glory I covet, no riches I \rant, 
 
 Ambition is notliing to me ; 
 The one thing I beg of kind Heaven to grant. 
 
 Is a mind independent and free. 
 
 With passions unruffl'd, untainted with pride, 
 
 By reason my Jife let me square ; 
 The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied, 
 
 And the rest are but folly and care. 
 
 The blessings which Providence freely has lent, 
 
 I'll justly and gratefully prize ; 
 Whilst to angle the stream, be biythe and content, 
 
 Shall make me both healthful and wise. 
 
 In the pleasures the great man's possessions display, 
 
 Uneuvied I'll challenge my part ; 
 For every fresh landscape my eyes can survey 
 
 Doth lighten and cheer up my heart. 
 
 How vainly through infinite trouble and strife, 
 
 The many their labours employ; 
 Since all that is truly delightful in life, 
 
 Is what all, if they please, can enjoy.
 
 162 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE BOTTOM FISHER. 
 Tune — " When we wenl a Gipsying^ 
 
 In childhood's days, when summer came. 
 
 It was my earnest wish. 
 To leave each noisy boist'rous game. 
 
 To rove about and fish. 
 I sought each little pond and stream, 
 
 Where weeds and rushes grow. 
 And prickle backs prime fish did seem, 
 
 A long time ago. 
 
 For larger streams, and larger fish, 
 
 I soon began to pine; 
 Oh ! then was granted to my wish 
 
 A rod, with winch and line. 
 In Hornsey village, near the church. 
 
 When gentle winds did blow, 
 I've taken chub and bright-eyed perch, 
 
 A long time ago. 
 
 As youth advanced, at early day 
 
 The rising sun I've seen, 
 And brusli'd the morning dew away, 
 
 O'er fields of lively green. 
 My bounding heart from care was free. 
 
 My cheeks with health did glow, 
 My float went dancing down the Lea, 
 
 A long time ago.
 
 «N ANGLING. lf)S 
 
 1 came of age, procured a wife, 
 
 Kind Heaven gave a son ; 
 I work'd, and led a jovial life 
 
 When business was done. 
 While sometimes I indulged my wish, 
 
 And to Putney Bridge did row, 
 With wife and little son to fish, 
 
 A long time ago. 
 
 The steamers multiplied so fast, 
 
 And multiplied our fears. 
 Our man and boat dismiss'd at last. 
 
 We left the Putney piers. 
 At Teddington our punt was moor'd, 
 
 Where roaring waters flow, 
 There barbel, roach, and dace we floor'd, 
 
 A long time ago. 
 
 Old Father Time has play'd his pranks, 
 
 My hair is silver grey. 
 Yet still along the verdant banks 
 
 Of streams I fondly stray. 
 The gentle craft I still pursue, 
 
 While wandering to and fro, 
 And angle, as I used to do, 
 
 A long time ago. 
 
 T. B.
 
 164 SONfeS, liTO. 
 
 GLEE. 
 'Tis life to young anglers in early spring time, 
 
 In the spring time all so fair, 
 Through the meadows to go where primroses grow, 
 
 A-breatliing the mild air. 
 When the butterfly com^s and the great bee hums. 
 
 Round the sallow bush gosling-clad ; 
 And a tweet, tweet, go th(i little birds sweet, 
 
 Then the heart of the angler is glad. 
 
 ^Tis life to young anglers in high summer days. 
 
 In the summer days all so line. 
 Ail blythe to be laid in the green, green shade. 
 
 Or bask in the broad sunshine ; 
 Vv hen the hawk sails high in the grey, grey sky. 
 
 With dark clouds thinly clad ; 
 And the merry flies brisk on the warm well frisk, 
 
 Then the heart of the angler is glad. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Angling, and free, for pleasure born. 
 Dull, sentimental fools I scorn ; 
 At random with the stream I flow. 
 And ply my art where'er I go. 
 From stream to stream I bend my way. 
 Where I can fish, and sing, and play ; 
 Short be my reign — and cast the die. 
 When I discard ray rod and fly. 
 York. K.
 
 ON ANGLING. 165 
 
 ON TAKING A SALMON. 
 
 — O, bliss divine ! 
 
 A salmon flound'ring at my line ! 
 Sullen at first he sinks to ground. 
 Or roils in circles round and round ; 
 Till, more inflamed, he plounging, sweeps, 
 And from the shallows seeks the deeps ; 
 Then bends the rod, the winch then sings, 
 And down the stream he headlong springs ; 
 But, turn'd with fiercer rage, he boils, 
 And tries indignant all his wiles ; 
 Yet vainly tries, his courage flown. 
 And all his mighty powers gone, 
 1 wind him up with perfect ease. 
 Or here, or there, or where I please ; 
 Till quite exhausted now he grows, 
 And now his silver sides he shows ; 
 Nor one faint effort more he tries, 
 But near my foot a captive lies ; 
 His tail I grasp with eager hand. 
 And swing, with joy, my prize on land. 
 
 1787. 
 
 MORAL 
 
 Think, when thou seest the bait, 
 
 Whereon is thy delite, 
 That hidden hookes are hard at hand, 
 
 To have thee when thou bite.
 
 l66 SONGS, ETO. 
 
 ANGLING, 
 
 Wlien the sun is shining low, 
 From our easy sport we go. 
 
 Our kettle full of fish ; 
 And, having thought, the golden day. 
 Through the meads we take our way. 
 
 In haste to dress our fish. 
 
 Whether it barbel be, or pike. 
 Or trout, or silver eel belike, 
 
 Or perch, or grazling free ; 
 Or bream, or carp, or tench, or bleak, 
 Or gudgeons, that in fords we seek, 
 
 Or roach, or dace it be. 
 
 A cup well stirr'd with rosemary, 
 A health to Madge, too, pledged free, 
 
 A song of harmless love ; 
 Sheets neatly kept in lavender 
 May, each day of the calender. 
 
 These simple blessings prove. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 If patience be a virtue, then 
 How happy are we fishermen ? 
 For all do know that those that fish 
 Have patience more than heart can wish. 
 1 692.
 
 ON ANGH.INO. 167 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When vernal airs perfume the fields, 
 And pleasing views the landscape yields ; 
 The limpid stream, the scaly breed, 
 Invite the angler's waving reed. 
 The musing swain what pleasures seize — 
 The talking brook, the sighing breeze, 
 The active insect's buzzing wing. 
 And birds that tuneful ditties sing. 
 
 At latest eve, at early dawn. 
 The angler quests the scented lawn, 
 And roams to snare the finny brood, 
 The flow'ry margin of the flood. 
 Now at some osier's wat'rv root. 
 The chub beguiles, or painted trout , 
 No cares nor noise his senses drown. 
 His pastime, ease and silence crown. 
 
 41 
 Adieu, ye sports of noise and toil. 
 That crowds in senseless strife embroil ; 
 The jockey's mirth, the huntsman's train. 
 Debauch of health, and waste of gain ; 
 More mild delights my life employ, 
 The angler's unexpensive joy ; 
 Here 1 can sweeten fortune's frowns, 
 Nor envy Kings the bliss of crownvS.
 
 168 SONGS BTC. 
 
 TWEEDSIDE. 
 
 What beauties does Flora disclose ? 
 
 How sweet are her smiles upon T^veed T 
 Yet Mary's still sweeter than those. 
 
 Both native and fancy exceed. 
 No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, 
 
 Not all the gay flowers of the field ; 
 'Not Tweed, gliding gently through those. 
 Such beauty and pleasure does yield. 
 
 The warblers are heard in the grove, 
 
 The linnet, the lark, and the thrush ; 
 The blackbird and sweet-cooing dove. 
 
 With music enchant every bush. 
 Come, let us go forth to the mead. 
 
 Let us see how the primroses spring ; 
 We'll fish the clear streams of the Tweed, 
 
 And love while the feathered folk sing. 
 
 • 
 How does my love pass the long day ? 
 
 Does I\Iary not tend a few hheep .'' 
 Do they never carelessly stray, 
 
 While happily she lies asleep. 
 Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest. 
 
 Kind nature indulging my bliss. 
 To ease the soft pains of my breast, 
 
 I'd steal an embiosial kiss.
 
 ON ANOLINO. 169 
 
 'Tis she does the virgins excel ; 
 
 No beauty with her may compare ; 
 Love's graces around her do dwell ; 
 
 She's fairest where thousands are fair. 
 Say, charmer, where do tliy flocks stray ? 
 
 Oh ! tell me at morn when they feed ; 
 Shall I seek them in angling the Tay ? 
 
 Or the pleasanter streams of the Tweed ? 
 ]736. Crawford. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 If thou lovest a quiet joy, 
 Will bid thee forget the tedious dream, 
 The struggle of life for fortune's beam, 
 
 Which the worldly-wise employ. 
 O'ershadow'd with newly budding trees, 
 And kiss'd by the gently fanning breeze, 
 
 How sweet is the fisherman's haunt ! 
 Life's struggles do not reach him there. 
 
 And there ambition is forgot ; 
 There dwells no pride, there springs no taunt. 
 
 Nor pining for a prouder lot ; 
 Then let tlie prey in covert rest. 
 
 The game nestle in field and wood. 
 And change the scarlet for fisher's vest. 
 
 The «tubble and chase for the flood ; 
 For kindly doth nature to sportsmen appear, 
 Though winter is gone, and Ihe May-days are here^
 
 Ji-) 8<JNGS, ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Ye fishermen of Scotland, 
 
 Who love the stream and pool. 
 Whose haunts are by the river side. 
 
 Among the shadows cool : 
 Your tackle mount, my gallant hearts, 
 
 With minnow, fly, and roe. 
 It is best from the west. 
 
 While the gentle bi'eezes blow. 
 
 Old Scotland holds the cataract 
 
 Among her mountains steep. 
 With streamy rills and sleepy pools, 
 
 Where trout and salmon leap. 
 Mount the line, my gallant hearts, 
 
 The hills are clear of snow ; 
 Fling bait in the spate, 
 
 While the gentle breezes blow. 
 
 The spirit of old anglers gone 
 
 Will rise with every cast, 
 And cheer us 'neath the summer sun, 
 
 Or winter's angry blast. 
 Where old John Forster fish'd so well. 
 
 To Birgham Dub we'll go. 
 And try with the fly. 
 
 While the getitle breezes blow.
 
 ON ANGLING. 171 
 
 The fame of Carham's angling stream 
 
 Will only higher rise, 
 While Scott can wield a salmon rod, 
 
 Or Carse can dress such flies, 
 Tweed's been their glory, they her pride. 
 
 Then let her waters flow 
 To the fame of their name. 
 
 While the gentle breezes blow. 
 
 W. A. FoRSTER. 
 
 SONG ON MAY MORNING. 
 
 Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger. 
 
 Comes dancing from the east, and brings with her 
 
 The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws 
 
 The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
 
 Hail, beauteous May ! that dost inspire 
 
 Mirth and youth and warm desire ; 
 
 Woods and groves are of thy dressing. 
 
 Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
 
 The angler cheers thee with his lively song. 
 
 And welcomes thee to tarry long.
 
 172 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 AN ANGf.ER'S ADDRESS TO A RIVER. 
 
 Sportive voung River, we've rambled together 
 Over the mountain-moors, purpled with heather ; 
 On, where the foxglove and bracken wave over 
 The blackcock and curlew, the pewit and plover ; 
 And down the rough rocks with a shout of delight. 
 Where the wild elhn birches are dancing in white ; 
 And onwards again with a sparkle and splash 
 To the dark, dusky woods of oak, alder, and ash ; 
 And down deeper still to the green sunnj^ valley, 
 With frolic and laughter, with song and with sally. 
 
 Beautiful River ! full many a day 
 In that green happy valley we've sauntered away. 
 Watching the flight of the light cloudy shadows, 
 Listing the low of the kine in the meadows. 
 The chirp of the grasshopper, hum of the bee. 
 And sweet loving song of the bird on the tree; 
 In a world of our own, without sorrow or sin. 
 All peaceful around us, all peaceful within ; 
 While gay pleasant fancies, profuse as the flowers. 
 And musings of calm meditations were ours. 
 
 True-hearted River ! there came a sweet rill. 
 Fresh as the morn, from a neighbouring hill ; 
 And ye kissed, and united, and flowed on in one, 
 O'er rugged and gentle, through shadow and sun ;
 
 ON ANGLING. 1?^ 
 
 And I found a sweet maid in a nook by thy side, 
 Where bees, birds, and roses enraptur'd abide ; 
 And ^lad was my heart as the soft summer breeze, 
 As we whispered and angled 'neath thy bowering trees: 
 And that young lovely maiden, so modest, benign* 
 Is the rill whose pure being is blended with mine. 
 
 Strong-hearted River, undaunted and free. 
 Rejoicing in labour, I've angled in thee ; 
 And felt thy glad spirit expand in my heart. 
 While humbly, but earnestly, filling my part 
 In the plan of the universe — best understood 
 While working with all things together for good ; 
 While manfully striving and gathering strength. 
 Through patient endeavour, to triumph at length. 
 And win the high guerdon, and learn the deep lore. 
 Unfolding to true earnest work evermore. 
 
 Majestic old River! we're passing away 
 
 From the land of our pilgrimage, green and gay ; 
 
 Ample and deep, thy beneficent course 
 
 Calmly rolls on to its primitive source ; 
 
 While lonely I fish to listen the low solemn sound 
 
 Of that ocean, more awful, no shingles surround ; 
 
 Dark bourne where the streams of life and time tend. 
 
 All thought, love and hope, joy and sorrow descend ; 
 
 And 1 pray, as I bow to the fidt divine. 
 
 For calmness, and courage, and strength like thine. 
 
 John Wagkr.
 
 174 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 MRS. PARTINGTON'S MALEDICTION. 
 
 Mr. Walton, it's harsh to say it. 
 
 But, as a parent, I can't help wishing 
 
 You'd been hang'd before you publish'd your book, 
 To set all the young people a-fishing. 
 
 There's my William, the trouble I've had with him. 
 
 Surpasses a mortal's bearing, 
 And all through those devilish Angling Books, 
 
 The Lord forgive me for swearing. 
 
 I thought he were took with the morbus. 
 One day, I did, with his nasty angle, 
 
 For, " Oh dear," says he, and burst out in a cry, 
 " Oh, my gut is all got of a tangle." 
 
 I vow I've suffered martyrdom, 
 
 With all sorts of frights and terrors surrounded, 
 For I never saw him go out of the doors, 
 
 But thought he'd come home to me drownded. 
 
 And, sure enough, I set out one fine Monday 
 
 To visit my married daughter. 
 And there he was standing at Sadler's Wells, 
 
 A performing with real water.
 
 ON ANGLING. 175 
 
 It's well he was off on the further side, 
 For I'd have brain'd him with my patten. 
 
 For I thought he was safe at school, the young wretch, 
 A studying Greek and Latin ; 
 
 And my reticule basket he'd got on his back, 
 
 To carry his fishes and gentles. 
 With a strap I knevr he had made from the belt 
 
 Of his father's regimentals. 
 
 Then one Friday morning I gets a summoning note 
 
 From a sort of law attorney. 
 For the boy had been trespassing on people's grounds 
 
 While his father was gone on a journey. 
 
 And I had to go and hush it all up, by myself. 
 
 In au office in Hatton Garden, 
 And to pay for the damage he'd done to boot. 
 
 And to beg some strange gentleman's pardon. 
 
 And wasn't he once fish'd out himself, 
 
 And a man had to dive to find him. 
 And I saw him brought home with my motherly eyes. 
 
 And a crowd of people behind him. 
 
 Yes, it took a good hour to rub him to life. 
 
 Whilst I was a.screaming and raving. 
 And a couple of guineas it cost besides. 
 
 To reward the humane man for his saving.
 
 176 SdNGS, ETC. 
 
 FISHING WEATHER'S COMING, LADS. 
 
 Fishing M'eather's coming, lads. 
 
 The winter dies apace ; 
 Dark and boist'rous days awhile 
 Rob the streamlets of their smile. 
 
 And landscape of its grace. 
 
 The east wind it blows cold and keen, 
 
 Its crystal fringe the streams ; 
 Ah ! but see the primrose sj)rings, 
 Golden crocus and such-like things 
 Point to genial gleams. 
 
 Very sooa the Spring will rouse 
 
 The finny tribes to life ; 
 Very soon the trees be clad 
 With the insects that Ihey had. 
 
 That caus'd such eager strife. 
 
 Every day a warmer sun 
 
 Pierces the running stream ; 
 Soon the breezes of the Spring, 
 Fraught with food upon their wing, 
 
 Disturb the salmon's dream. 
 Fishing weather's coming, lads, 
 
 Look to your rods and flies ; 
 Winter soon shall pass away, 
 Hope and Spring will gain the day. 
 
 And sport delight your eyes. 
 Southampton, 1824.
 
 ON ANGLING. l77 
 
 CATCHING THE SALMON. 
 And this, the bravest fellow 
 
 To-day that tried my hand. 
 Off this wooden bridge I hook'd. 
 
 Exactly where I stand. 
 
 I'd view'd the water over 
 
 With scrutinizing eye. 
 And marked the place I judged 
 
 The feeding fish would lie. 
 
 On surge then cast my fly, 
 
 And guided on its way, 
 Free as an unattached fly 
 
 Would on the waters play ; 
 
 But scarcely had it reached 
 
 The point within my aim. 
 When smack, and boldly seized it, 
 
 This noble salmon came ; 
 
 Back to his berth retreated, 
 
 A moment felt no ill. 
 Till twitch sharp of my angle 
 
 Struck hook into his gill. 
 
 Amazed, in consternation, 
 
 He darted to and fro. 
 First he rushed above the bridge, 
 
 Then headlong ran below ;
 
 178 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 In terror and confusion 
 Id shallow water ran : — 
 
 I see, ] cried, that I must use 
 Now all the skill I can. 
 
 Quick line an reel examined. 
 To see that all was right. 
 
 Wound short, and then held on him 
 With rod erect and tight. 
 
 Strong he cut the heavy stream 
 With many an effort stout, 
 
 Then slowly back retreated. 
 And wheeled the hole about. 
 
 Confused, he would pause then, 
 But, angler old and true, 
 
 1 urg'd him on to work still — 
 More wild and wild he grew. 
 
 Then he ran his nose to ground. 
 
 Distinctly I could feel, 
 A dangerous trick, I knew it, 
 
 And sharply twitched the steel. 
 
 Touched sharp, he into air sprung 
 A yard complete and clean, 
 
 Then dry upon yon bank ran 
 That lays the streams between
 
 ON ANGLING. 1/9 
 
 Quite sure that there I had him 
 
 As he riaekered on the sand, 
 From bridge that instant bounding, 
 
 I sprung upon tlie strand. 
 
 Into the water jumped, 
 
 Splashed on through thick and thin, 
 Just as I jumped out again. 
 
 He just again jumpt in. 
 
 " Bravo !" I called, '■ brave fellow. 
 
 Neat trick that in its way. 
 Perhaps ere long you'll find though, 
 
 We trick for trick can play." 
 
 Then heavy I held on him. 
 
 He did but weakly bhoot, 
 And easy drew him onward 
 
 Till he was near my foot. 
 
 But there, the rogue, he saw me, 
 
 And did not like my phiz. 
 Off like an arrow darted, 
 
 My line went with him — whiz-z. 
 
 Wild he cut the foaming surge, 
 "1'hat's right," 1 said, "go on, 
 
 The more you play at that game. 
 The sooner you'll be done."
 
 J80 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 In heavy stream he struggled, 
 
 And tugged with might and main^ 
 
 Sometimes a foot receded, 
 Advanced a foot again ; 
 
 A foot of line I yielded, 
 And then a foot I wound. 
 
 Until that sort of labour 
 He (juite fatiguing found ; 
 
 Sulkily retreating, fighting, 
 In deep he took his stand. 
 
 But yielding him no quarter. 
 My rod " bent to my hand ;" 
 
 My reel then gently winding, 
 
 To land again I tried, 
 And, gliding near the surface, 
 
 I drew him to the side. 
 
 Half slipt him on yon sand bank. 
 But there he wouldn't lie. 
 
 Dashed into the deep again 
 And made the waters fly. 
 
 Id fear and anger roving. 
 From side to side he dashed, 
 
 Now to the bottom darted, 
 Then on the surface flashed ;
 
 OM ANGLING. 183 
 
 At bottom tried all his skill 
 
 To clear away the hook^ 
 Ran round and in anger. 
 
 And then his head he shook ; 
 
 But, foiled in every effort, 
 
 He tried another scheme, 
 With all his strength remaining, 
 
 He rushed down the stream. 
 
 " Stop," I said, " brave fellow, 
 
 That plan won't do for me, 
 Though wisely you have schemed it, 
 
 I can't pass yonder tree ; 
 
 Right well I know the mistake 
 
 Now ruling in your head. 
 Quite safe you'd be, you're thinking. 
 
 In deeps of Ellenhead. 
 
 But thither I can't follow, 
 
 So now it's you or I, 
 This moment hangs your fate on, — 
 
 You conquer or you die." 
 
 Just where yon stream turns, rolling. 
 
 And foaming breaks away, 
 In desperation struggling, 
 
 I held him there at bay.
 
 182 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Furious, he sprung round and round, 
 That dangerous trick he tried, 
 
 His tail it lashed the surface, 
 Spray flew on every side. 
 
 His strength and stream united, 
 My rod made creak and crack. 
 
 But, thanks to tackle perfect, 
 I brought him, bull necks, back. 
 
 With struggle hard exhausted. 
 
 He at the surface laid. 
 His tail had ceased its motion, 
 
 His tins no longer played. 
 
 Near to the bank I drew him. 
 But as he touched the ground. 
 
 His strength seemed full restored. 
 And turning with a bound : 
 
 Up foaming surge he rushed. 
 
 With final effort brave, 
 A moment there he struffffled, 
 
 Then floated on the wave. 
 
 I think his heart was broken, 
 Poor fellow he was done. 
 
 Broadside on the waters, 
 He glittered in the sun.
 
 ON ANGLING. 183 
 
 On yonder bank I drew him, 
 
 His silver side laid there, 
 He gaped and gasped for water, 
 
 But drew in onlj- air. 
 
 From fatal hook I freed him. 
 
 Then laid him on the green, 
 Exclaiming, " braver fellow 
 
 By angler ne'er was seen. 
 
 Thou hast fought thy battle nobly, 
 
 With skilful might and main. 
 But now the struggle's over, 
 
 I'll put thee out of pain." 
 
 Then with a smooth-edged pebble, 
 
 I hit him on the head. 
 His fins they spread convulsive, 
 
 He shivered, and was — dead. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Angling tends our bodies to exercise, 
 And also souls to make holy and wise ; 
 By Heavenly thoughts and meditations. 
 This, this is angler's recreation, 
 
 I7O6.
 
 184 S01*GS, ETC. 
 
 LINES ON AN ANGLING TOUR TO THE 
 RIVER CANCHE AND ITS TRIBU- 
 TARIES, IN FRANCE. 
 
 Thy wooded heights, fair Canche, I leave 
 With visions bright and gleaming ; 
 
 The country on thy banl<s looks grand, 
 With precious fruits it's teaming. 
 
 Along thy streams, beneath thy shades. 
 
 With sporting zeal I've trod ; 
 And oft pluck'd out the yellow trout, 
 
 And laid him on the sod. 
 
 Grave thoughts have oft my mind engross'd. 
 
 With tales of British story ; 
 Where Pianchette flows, by Agincourt, 
 
 I've dwelt on England's gloi-y. 
 
 There, in the village church, I've read 
 
 Of deeds sublime and brave ; 
 And friends and foes, some thousands deep, 
 
 Sleep in one common grave.* 
 
 * The Battle of Agincourt took place 25th October, 
 1415, and five thousand of the slain were buried in one 
 mound.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 From scenes so sad I turn the eye, 
 To Ternoise placid streams ; 
 
 Where verdant sides, in richest hues, 
 Dazzle with silv'ry gleams 
 
 Thy villages so picturesque. 
 Thy maidens fair and gay ; 
 
 Thy rippling waters music yield 
 That melt the soul away. 
 
 Farewell, sweet rivers, on thy banks 
 
 My fancy oft will roam. 
 Even amid those pure deliohts. 
 
 Found in an Euglish home. 
 
 186 
 
 LIXES WRITTEN ON A PANE OF Gf.ASS 
 Ix\ A COUNTRY INN, DUMFRIESSHIRE. 
 
 I've seen the smiling primrose flower, 
 
 Among the braes of Yarrow ; 
 I've felt the cutting winds of March, 
 
 Among tiie hills of Barra ; 
 I've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er, 
 
 From Beauley to the Reed, 
 But the bonniest stream to throw a line, 
 
 Is the bonny, bonny Tweed.
 
 180 
 
 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 ANGLING LINES ON THE RIVER AA, IN 
 THE PAS-DE-CALAIS, FRANCE. 
 
 Vale of bliss ! what joy to wander 
 
 Where thy glittering waters flow ! 
 I'ere, e'en Guilt in peace may ponder; 
 
 Here, Despair forget his woe ! 
 Come, where glassy streamlets gushing, 
 Through the meadows curling stray ; 
 Come, and gaze on Nature blushing. 
 In the fierce embrace of May. 
 
 Vale of bliss ! what joy to wander 
 
 Where thy glittering waters flow ! 
 Here, e'en Guilt in peace may ponder ; 
 Here, Despair forget his woe ! 
 
 AJark the bold, broad, green hill crowning. 
 
 Far and wide, the lovely scene ; 
 On whose brow yon ruin frowning, 
 
 Dimly shadows what hath been ; 
 There, at noon, how sweet to listen 
 
 To the music of the trees ; 
 There, to see the clear streams glisten. 
 
 As they sparkle in the breeze ! 
 
 Vale of bliss, etc., etc. 
 
 Now the rays of eve lie glowing 
 
 On the village spire beneath ; 
 Bright as gleams of glory flowing 
 
 Round some sinless martyr's wreath !
 
 ON ANGLING. 187 
 
 Soon the bird of darkness ringing, 
 Wakes the woods with solemn song ; 
 
 Spirits, too, of night Feeni singing. 
 As they soar the stars among. 
 
 Vale of bliss, etc., etc. 
 
 O how blest, to dwell for ever, 
 
 'Mid these scenes of placid pt-ace ! 
 If some Power the past could sever, 
 
 If the tones of IMem'ry cease. 
 Ah ! not Faith herself dare cherish 
 
 Hopes unstain'd by 'wild'ring fears ; 
 Could we dream the past might perish, 
 
 What shall quench our future tears .'' 
 Vale of bliss, etc, etc. 
 
 SEASON FOR ANGLING. 
 
 The waters not too high, too thick, too clear. 
 When Sol's bright beams do not at all appear, 
 Nor yet the wind too low, nor over high ; 
 On purling streams, if then you'll cast the fly. 
 That right in season is, and if triie make, 
 Well like to such the trout now best will take ; 
 I dare engage, have you but any skill. 
 You will not fail the nimble trout to kill. 
 1706.
 
 188 SONGS, KTC. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 What thouffh the hunter's horn be mute. 
 
 The wild hallo no longer heard ? 
 Though fox nor hound is now on foot. 
 And no one wears the scarlet suit. 
 
 And no one wings a bird ; 
 Yet still j'oung May doth don a dress 
 That shines a thing of loveliness, 
 
 In raptur'd sportsman's ej^e. 
 Not, not alone, for the sweet rose 
 
 That now first owns the summer sun, 
 Not for the blossoms they descry. 
 
 From spiing's full flow'ry lap just won ; 
 But that she calls them to the plain, 
 
 Ai;d Leclions to the stream. 
 And, joying in her genial reign, 
 
 Bids hearts and hope to beam. 
 Oh ! then there is something the sportsman to cheer. 
 Spring is gone and the iVJ ay-days are here. 
 
 Then, sp irtsmen, to the course, the coui'se. 
 For there is the higli-mettled steed ; 
 
 Or bend thy steps to the river source, 
 
 \\ hen 'tis rippled by the south wind's force, 
 And the spotted trout doth feed ; 
 
 Ay, hie thee on^ these are of May, 
 
 And make of their spirit a holiday. 
 Nor think of the covert and fields.
 
 ON ANGLING. 189 
 
 You sure must love the cheerful scene, 
 
 All crowded o'er with busy life, 
 Which the peopled race course yields 
 
 On the banks of some peaceful stream. 
 
 ANGLING PLEASURES. 
 
 When worldly cares corrode the heart. 
 And strongness to its pulse impart ; 
 When misanthropic thoughts arise. 
 And we our fellow-men despise ; 
 When public ills and public brawls. 
 Or private jarring us befalls. 
 Then esteem the solid treasures. 
 Nought so sweet as angling pleasures. 
 
 When on the soul you'd pour the balm. 
 Inspire its hopes, or passions calm ; 
 Light up its tires for noble deeds, 
 Direct its path where honour leads. 
 The selfish, sordid, and the base. 
 Nor nothing low can have a place ; 
 Throw yourself on solid treasures. 
 Nought so sweet as angling pleasures.
 
 190 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 THE BLUE TAIL'D FLY. 
 
 A hungry fish once clianced to spy 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 A little wicked blue-tail'd fly, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 This fly unto the fish did say, 
 As in the flood he sau- him play, 
 If you can bite my tail you may, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 This hungry fish then made a spring, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 But he could not catch this blue-tail'd thing, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 So, like the Fox, he lost a treat. 
 For the fish the fly could not eat, 
 So says he your nasty skin's not sweet, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 Now a little man by chance came by, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 And he caught with his hand this blue-tail'd fly, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 Then on a hook this fly he hung, 
 And in this river this blue thing flung. 
 Where death soon stopt his wicked tongue, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c.
 
 ON ANGLINO 191 
 
 This hungry iish saw the blue-tail'd fly fail, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 I'll eat, says he, his body and all, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c 
 My hungry belly you shall fill, 
 The fly I'll eat against his will, 
 lie bit — but the hook stuck in his gill, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 The little man drew him on land, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 And took this hungry Ash in hand, 
 
 Fal de ral, ficc- 
 Then on a twig did him suspend. 
 For to eat this fish he did intend. 
 So my song, good folks, is at an end, 
 
 Fal de ral, &c. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 O world's deceit ! how are we thrall'd by thee, 
 That dost thy gall in sweetest pleasures hide ! 
 When most we think in happiest state to be, 
 Then do we soonest into danger slide : 
 Behold the fish, that even now was free, 
 Unto the deadly hook how lie is ty'd ; 
 So vain delights allure us to the snare, 
 Wherein un'wares we firot entangled arc. 
 
 Elegie. Dr. Donnk.
 
 192 SONGS, E'fO. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 On Tweeds bonnie banks, in summer's gay light, 
 
 To angle we meet and be frisky ; [hill. 
 
 Where the peat-reeking still, on the brown heather 
 Pours its streams of bright generous whisky. 
 Oh, the rich, generous whisky, 
 The heart-cheering, mirth-making whisky. 
 Ail the evils of life, so bleak and so rife, 
 Are cured with a bumper of whisky. 
 
 Are you sad, are you glad, are you moping or mad- 
 Are you sulky, or wish to be frisky — 
 
 Come fly to the rill, and your basket you'll fill, 
 And be charmed with a bumper of whisky. 
 
 Is the plague of your life a termagant wife. 
 Who glooms when y<'U wish to be frisky ? 
 
 Bring her up to the hill, by the true-famed rill. 
 We'll soothe her to kindness with Avhisky. 
 
 Oh, the rich, &c. 
 
 Are you lawyer or doctor, or parson or proctor, 
 
 Who ne'er enjoyed being frisky ? 
 Whate'-'r vour condition, coine here, and remission 
 
 Receive in a bumper of whisky. 
 All ranks and degrees, here grouped at their ease. 
 
 Are jovial, and canty, and frisky ; 
 And care and dull sadness are wash'd into gladness, 
 
 In bumpers of generous whisky. 
 
 Oh, the rich, &c.
 
 ON ANGLING. 193 
 
 A LONDON FISHING EXCURSION. 
 
 Some friends of mine, for mirth aud glee, 
 Fixed on a day to have a spree. 
 When, 'twas agreed upon that we 
 
 Should all go out an angling ! 
 There \yas Will Smith and Stephen Shore, 
 With Harry Grant and Bobby Blower, 
 Besides old Muggins and Dicky More, 
 I think, in all, full half a score ,• 
 Towards the Winter's dreary close. 
 When balmy Spring first shows his nose, 
 Those friends of mine they did propose. 
 
 We should go out an angling. 
 With rod and line, and wheel, and creel, 
 Up, Sportsmen, up, upon your heel. 
 And show the spirit that you feel 
 
 When you go out an angling. 
 
 'Twas at old Muggins' house we met. 
 All ripe for fun, a jovial set. 
 We had cigars, and just a M'et, 
 
 Before we went an angling. 
 Old Muggins he a long rod had, 
 Which was his father's, when a lad ; 
 While Billy Blower made a line 
 Of thick and goodly hempen twine, 
 
 o
 
 194 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Deteriniued all things should be right. 
 We tied aud baited over night. 
 Since full four hours before 'twas light, 
 We were to start an angling. 
 
 With rod and line. Sic. 
 
 As off down Fenchurch Street we set. 
 Towards St. George's Church to get, 
 A lot of new Police we met 
 
 As we went out an angling. 
 The sergeant quick did collar me, 
 The rest, as they the rods did see, 
 Sung out, " Lads, here's a burglary ;" 
 What's in these bundles ? come, let's see." 
 With that a dreadful fight arose, 
 And Muggins got a broken nose, 
 So off to the station goes. 
 
 Instead of out an angling. 
 
 With rod and line, &c. 
 
 At length, by i)aying something each, 
 As we for freedom did beseech. 
 We did contrive to mend the breach, 
 
 And started off an angling ; 
 Everything went off right well, 
 No pleasure, sure, could ours excel. 
 Until Me came to Camberwell, 
 When Me a precious fog did smell ;
 
 OK ANGLTNn ] 95 
 
 "So tliick, and in sucli clouds arose. 
 Like cobwebs it hung on our clothes. 
 None saw an inch before their nose, 
 As we went out an ansrlinsr. 
 
 A\ iti) rod and line, &c. 
 
 Disasters still did follow nigh. 
 
 For, as we cross'd o'er Peckliam-Rye, 
 
 Bob poked his rod in Bill Smith's eye, 
 
 As we M-ent out an angling. 
 At length, so dreadful came the fog. 
 Poor Muggins fell into the bog. 
 His rod was lost, and ah ! his dog, 
 Was found as dead's a wooden lo''- : 
 When he again on dry ground stood, 
 We laughed, though forced to chew the cud. 
 To see his mouth stuffed full of mud. 
 
 Though going out an angling. 
 
 With rod and line, &c. 
 
 We lialted just about day-break, 
 
 As all our legs began to ache, 
 
 And thought we would some breakfast take 
 
 Ere we Ijegan to angle ; 
 Upon a stile, then, nicely moor'd, 
 We had of meat a perfect hoard, 
 The gin and water we had stored. 
 Into our tumblers then wc ))ourod ;
 
 196 SONGS, *;tc. 
 
 But it seems misfortune never halts, 
 For Muggins' w ife (who had her faults) 
 Instead of giu had put up salts, 
 For us to take an anfflintr. 
 
 With rod and line, &c. 
 
 We every step through rain did come. 
 At last we saw poor Muggins home. 
 Who vows he ne'er again will roam, 
 
 At least go out an angling. 
 For my part, I can only say 
 I never spent so sad a day. 
 And as to trout, dace, pike, to play. 
 We did not see one all the day. 
 Now Muggins sits at home and crams. 
 And sells his butter, eggs, and hams. 
 But as for sporting, fairly damns 
 
 The day he went an angling. 
 
 With rod and line, &c. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When blythesome May brings heather bells. 
 On moorland hills sae bonnie O, 
 
 I love to saunter by the stream. 
 And hie to meet my Johnny O.
 
 ON ANGLING. 197 
 
 For he's leal and true, and his bonnet blue> 
 
 He'll fish the rill sae bonnie O ; 
 When o'er the dikes, and through the sike, 
 
 I flee to meet my Johnny O. 
 
 When cruddled in his fondling arms, 
 And pressed \vi' lips sae bonnie O, 
 
 My yearning heart sae fou and fain, 
 Croons wi' its love for Johnny O. 
 
 Wi' guileless tongue sae fair and free, 
 
 I fear nac skaith of ony O, 
 When dandlin' on the honest knee 
 
 O' my fond angling Johnny O, 
 
 At Lammas tide I'll be his bride. 
 
 And care nae mair for ony O, 
 The happy wife to spend my life 
 
 With honest angling Johnny O. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 By silver streams and tuneful grove, 
 I'll give my angling steps to rove ; 
 To haunt the brink of trinkling rills, 
 The flow'ry vales or sloping hills. 
 Far, far, from all I fear or hate, 
 From splendid life's delusive state. 
 Splendour canker'd with distress. 
 Grandeur mix'd with littlene§s.
 
 198 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 The waters, the waters, how clearly they flow. 
 And how softly and balmy the summer winds blow ; 
 There are joys in the chase where the red fox doth flee^ 
 There are joys on the turf where the fleet coursers be, 
 But the waters, the waters of Avon for me. 
 
 The waters, the waters, their murmurs are sweet, 
 And their banks, their swift ripples, delighted I greet. 
 The hill and the dale with wild huntsmen agree, 
 With the archer the green sward, the sailor the sea, 
 But the waters, the waters for anglers and me. 
 
 The waters, the waters, o'trshadow'd with leaves. 
 And cool'd by the ev'ning, and fann'd by the breeze ; 
 Are my sun. set companions adovi^n by the lea, 
 When the scenes of my childhood delighted I see. 
 And sing, Oh, the waters, the waters for me. 
 
 TO THE MAY FLY OF THE ANGLER. 
 
 Thou art a frail and lovely thing, 
 
 Engender'd by the sun ; 
 A moment only on the wing 
 
 And thy career is done. 
 
 Thou sportest in the ev'ning beam 
 
 An hour — an age to thee — 
 In gaiety above the stream. 
 
 Which soon thy grave must be.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 199 
 
 Although thy life is like to thee, 
 
 An atom — art thou not 
 Far happier than thou e'er could'st be 
 
 If long life were thy lot ? 
 
 For then deep pangs might wound thy breast. 
 
 And make thee wish for death ; 
 But, as it is, thou'rt soon at rest, 
 
 Thou creature of a breath. 
 
 THE SLUICE HOUSE ON THE NEW RIVKR. 
 
 Ye who with rod and line aspire to catch 
 
 Leviathans that swim within the stream 
 
 Of this fam'd River, now no longer new, 
 
 Yet stil so call'd, come hither to the Sluice^House. 
 
 Here largest gudgeons live, and fattest roach 
 
 Resort, and even barbel have been found. 
 
 Here, too. doth sometimes prey the rav'ning shark. 
 
 Of streams like this, that is to say, a jack. 
 
 If fortune aid ye, ye perchance shall find 
 
 Upon an average within one day, 
 
 At least a fish or two ; if ye do not, 
 
 This will I promise ye, that ye shall have 
 
 Most glorious nibbles ; come, then, haste ye here, 
 
 And with yc bring large stock of baits and patience.
 
 200 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE MAY-FLY. 
 
 The sun of the eve was warm and bright 
 When the May-fly burst his shell. 
 
 And he wanton'd awhile in that fair light 
 O'er the river's gentle svfcII ; 
 
 And the deepening tints of the crimson sky 
 
 Still gleam'd on the wings of the glad May-fly. 
 
 The colours of sunset pass'd away. 
 
 The ci'imson and yellow green, 
 And the evening-star's first twinkling ray 
 
 In the waveless stream was seen ; 
 Till the deep repose of the stillest night 
 Was hushing about his giddy flight. 
 
 The noon of the night is nearly come — 
 There's a crescent in the sky ; — 
 
 The silence still hears the myriad hum 
 Of the insect revelry. 
 
 The hum has ceas'd — the quiet wave 
 
 Is now the sportive May-fly's grave. 
 
 Oh ! thine was a blessed lot — to spring 
 
 In thy lustihood to air, 
 And sail about on untiring wing. 
 
 Through a world most rich and fair. 
 To drop at once in thy watery bed, 
 Like a leaf that the willow branch has shed
 
 ON ANGLING. 20l 
 
 And who shall say that his thread of years 
 
 Is a life more blest thau thine ! 
 Has his feverish dream of doubts and fears 
 
 Such joys as those which shine 
 In the constant pleasures of thy way, 
 Most happy child of the happy May ? 
 
 For thou wert born when the earth was clad 
 With her robe of buds and flowers. 
 
 And didst float about with a soul as glad 
 As a bird in the sunny showers ; 
 
 And the hour of thy death had a sweet repose^ 
 
 Like a melody, sweetest at its close. 
 
 Nor too brief the date of thy cheerful race— 
 
 'Tis its use that measures time — 
 And the mighty Spirit that fills all space 
 
 With His life and His will sublime. 
 May see that the May-fly and the Man 
 Each flutter out the same small span. 
 
 And the fly that is born with the sinking sun. 
 
 To die ere the midnight hour. 
 May have deeper joy, ere his course be run. 
 
 Than n)an in his pride and power ; 
 And the insects minutes be spared the fears 
 And the anxious doubts of our three-sjcore yt^ars.
 
 202 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 The years and the minutes are as one — 
 The fly drops in his twilight mirth. 
 
 And the man, when his long day's work is done, 
 Crawls to the self-same earth. 
 
 Great Father of each I may our mortal day 
 
 Re the prelude of ai} endless May ! 
 
 WALTON'S VERSIFICATION OF SOME 
 OPINIONS OF DU BARTAS. 
 
 God <iuicken'd in the sea, and in the rivers. 
 
 So many fishes of so many features, 
 
 That in the waters we may see all creatures, 
 
 Even all that on the earth are to be found. 
 
 As if the world were in deep waters drown'd. 
 
 For seas, as well as skies, have sun, moon, stars ; 
 
 As well as air — swallows, rooks, and stares ; 
 
 As well as earth — vines, roses, nettles, melons, 
 
 [Mushrooms, pinks, gilliflowers, and many millions 
 
 Of other ])lants, more rare, more sti ange than these. 
 
 As very fishes, living in the seas ; 
 
 As also rams, calves, horses, hares, and hogs. 
 
 Wolves, urchins, lions, elephants, and dogs ; 
 
 Yea, men and maids; and, which I most admire, 
 
 The mitred bishop, and the cowled friar ; 
 
 Of which, examples, but a ^ew years since, 
 
 Were shown the Norway and Polonian prince.
 
 ON ANGLING. 20S 
 
 LINES ASCRIBED BY WALTON TO SIR 
 HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 This day dame Nature seeni'd in love, 
 
 The lusty sap began to move, 
 
 Fresh juice did stir th^ embracing vines, 
 
 And birds had drawn their valentiiies, 
 
 The jealous trout, that low did lie, 
 
 Rose at a well dissembled fly ; 
 
 There stood my friend, with patient skill,^ 
 
 Atteiiding of his trembling quill ; 
 
 Already were the eaves possess'd 
 
 With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest ; 
 
 The groves already did rejoice 
 
 In Philomel's triumphing voice ; 
 
 The showers were short, the weather mild. 
 
 The morning fresh, the evening smiled. 
 
 Joan takes her neat rubb'd pail, and now 
 She trips to milk the sand-red cow ; 
 Where, for some sturdy foot-ball swain, 
 Joan strokes a syllabub (»r twain. 
 The fields and gardens were beset 
 With tulips, crocus, violet : 
 And now, though late, the modest rose 
 Did more than half a blush disclose. 
 Thus all looks gay and full of cheer. 
 To welcome the new-liveried year.
 
 204 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 ON THEROUANNE, IN FRANCE. 
 
 Awake,'avrake, the May-morn Sun, 
 
 Sheds light on rock, and tower, and tree ; 
 
 The harbinger of joy and fun. 
 The God of mirth and jollity ! 
 
 Come, bring the rods, and let us plan 
 
 A trip to dear old Therouanne. 
 
 When Caesar's galleys spread their sails, 
 To land on Britain's storm-bound shore, 
 
 From Therouanne hills he caught the gales. 
 That o'er the wav^e his fortune bore ; 
 
 But now a slender trout-stream glides 
 
 Where once old ocean poured his tides. 
 
 1 he self-same hills above as frown, 
 That look'd on all his proud array ; 
 
 Yon village, once a peopled town, 
 
 Tells how those scenes have passed away ; 
 
 •O'er that sweet plain by cattle trod, 
 
 The imperial navy proudly rode ! 
 
 High hopf^s were his ! — Where'er he gazed, 
 A thousand sails were spread on high ; 
 
 Around, ten thousand watch-fires blazed. 
 Unnumbered standards filled the sky ; 
 
 Ail owned the world's great master's sway! 
 
 But where is he >* — And where are thev ?
 
 ON ANGLING. 205 
 
 Ages have winged tlipir solemn flight, 
 And Nature's features widely changed, 
 
 Since the great Roman in his might, 
 
 Unconquered iegion;? round him ranged ; 
 
 Two thousand years have marred the scene. 
 
 But man remains the same, I weeu. 
 
 Near this same plain ; a greater far 
 
 Than Rome's high chief held boundless sway ; 
 And sought to pour a mightier war, 
 
 Oil Britain's isle in recent day. 
 One threatened in her feeble hour ; 
 The other, in her pride and power. 
 
 And just their fates ! — The Romans came» 
 
 T' exalt and civilise the brave ; 
 The Frenchman, in the lust of fame. 
 
 To conquer, ruin, and enslave : 
 One she proclaims her boast, her pride ; 
 The other, as her captive, died. 
 
 But what are they, and what are all. 
 
 To us, my friends, this bright spring day ? 
 
 Come, haste we to yon waterfall. 
 
 Where golden trouts incessant play ; 
 
 There, steeped in Nature's gentlest joys. 
 
 Forget the world and all ita toys.
 
 206 
 
 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 And when the Sun his mid-day heat. 
 Pours dovfu upon the sultry glade, 
 
 We'll find some snug and cosy seat, 
 On which the light repast to spread ; 
 
 Then come what will, or weal or woe, 
 
 We'll crusli yon flask of light Bordeaux. 
 
 PaivMkr Hackle. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Before the fire we sit and sing, 
 Content and happy as a king, 
 
 When winds of Autumn blow ; 
 Employ'd upon our gentle themes 
 Till Spring unbend the frozen streams. 
 
 And then to fish we go. 
 
 With morn unto the dewy meads. 
 Where the herd contented feeds, 
 
 Tracing our steps again ; 
 What fortune can be like to this ? 
 Then let the wise j^artake our bliss, 
 
 Th' unwise at Courts remain.
 
 ON ANGLING. 207 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Of all the sports and pastimes, 
 
 Which happen in the year. 
 To angling there are none, sure, 
 
 That ever can compare. 
 
 Then to angle we will go, will go, &c. 
 
 For health and for diversion. 
 
 We rise bj- break of day ; 
 While courtiers, in their down beds, 
 
 Sweat half their time away. 
 
 Then to angle we will go, &c. 
 
 And then unto the river, 
 
 In haste we do repair, 
 AH day in sweet amusement, 
 
 We breathe good wholesome air. 
 Then to angle we will go, &e. 
 
 Through meadows, by a river. 
 
 From place to place we roam, 
 And, when that we are weary, 
 
 We then go jogging home. 
 
 Then to angle we will go, &c. 
 
 At night we take a bottle. 
 
 We prattle, laugh, and sing, 
 We drink a health unto our friends, 
 
 And so — God bless the Queen. 
 Then to angle we will go, &c.
 
 208 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE COURT OF ALDERMEN AT FISH- 
 MONGERS' HALL. 
 Is that dace or perch ? said Alderman Birch ; 
 I take it for herring, said Alderman Perring. 
 This jack's very good, said Alderman Wood ; 
 But its bones might a man slay, said Alderman 
 
 Ausley. 
 I'll butter what I get, said Alderman Heygate. 
 Give me some stew'd carp, said Alderman Thorp. 
 The roe's dry as pith, said A\devme?i Smith. 
 Don't cut so far down, said Alderman Brown ; 
 But nearer the fin, said Alderman Glyn. 
 I've finish'd i'faith man, said Alderman Waithuian ; 
 And I, too, i'fatkins, said Alderman Atkins 
 They've crimp'd this cod drolly, said Alderman 
 
 Scholey : 
 'Tis bruised at the ridges, said Alderman Brydges. 
 Was it caught in a drag ? Nay — said Alderman 
 
 Magnay. 
 'Twas brought by two men, said Alderman Ven- 
 ables ; Yes, in a box, said Alderman Cox. 
 They care not how fur 'tis, said Alderman Curtis. 
 From air kept, and from sun, said Alderman 
 
 Thompson ; 
 Pack'd neatly in straw, said Alderman Shaw : 
 In ice got from Gunter, said Alderman Hunter. 
 This ketchup is sour, said Alderman Flower ; 
 Then steep it in ciaret, said Alderman Garret.
 
 ON ANGLING. 209 
 
 LAMENT OF THE COCKNEY ANGLER 
 IN FRANCE. 
 I roam beneath a foreign skv, 
 
 That sky is cloudless, warm and clear. 
 And ev'ry thing is glad but I, — 
 But ha ! my heart is far from here. 
 
 They bid me look on rippling streams. 
 And boundless vineyards stretching far, 
 
 But I rejoice not in such themes, 
 And longing turn to Temple Bar. 
 
 They bid me mark the mighty Rhone, 
 
 Which flows majestic to the sea ; 
 But I feel depressed and lone, 
 
 And turn my thoughts, dear Thames, to thee. 
 They bid me mark the mountains high. 
 
 Which o'er the running waters bend, — 
 I only lieave a secret sigh — 
 
 To Ludgate Hill my wishes end. 
 
 They taunt me with our denser air, 
 
 And fogs so thick you scarce can see ; 
 Then, yellow fog, I will declare. 
 
 Though, strange to say, I long for thee. 
 And everything in this bright clime, 
 
 But serves to turn my thoughts to thee ; 
 Thou, London, of an earlier time, 
 
 Oh ! when shall I return to thee .^ 
 r
 
 210 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 MY GLENDALE FRIEND, WILL REEDY O ! 
 
 Tune,—" The Lea Rig." 
 
 O let my hat be e'er sae brown. 
 My coat be e'er sae seedy O ; 
 My whole turn-out scarce worth a crown, 
 Like gent's well-bred, but needy O ; 
 Yet still vfhile 1 have got 
 Enough to pay the shot 
 Of Boniface both gruff and greedy O, 
 I'll fill the sparkling cup. 
 And I'll drink it fairly up, 
 To my Glendale friend, Will Reedy O ! 
 
 Away wi' carking care and gloom. 
 
 That make life's pathway weedy O ; 
 A cheerful glass makes the flowers to bloom 
 And the lightsome hours fly speedy O; 
 Be merry but and wise. 
 Prize the minute as it flies. 
 And Sorrovr never will heed ye O : — 
 Then put the goblet round. 
 With a Fisher's Garland crown'd. 
 To my Glendale friend, Will Reedy O ! 
 
 Three summers now ha'e fled sinsyne 
 We met where Glen runs speedy O ; 
 
 Where ye on Cheviot mutton dine, 
 Wi' Cheviot fleeces dead ve O ;
 
 ON ANGLING. 211 
 
 Wheie ye wile wi' meikle skill 
 
 The braw trouties frae the Till, 
 To pleasure baith and to feed ye O ; — 
 
 Here's the lads of Cheviot side ! 
 
 Here's of anglers all the pride, — 
 My Glendale friend, Will Reedy O ! 
 
 1833. Stephen Oliver. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 As in successive course the seasons roll. 
 
 So circling pleasures recreate the soul ; 
 
 When genial Spring a living warmth bestows. 
 
 And o'er the year her verdant mantle throws, 
 
 No swelling inundation hides the ground. 
 
 But crystal currents glide within their bounds : 
 
 The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake. 
 
 Float in the sun, and skim along the lake ; 
 
 With frequent leap they range the shallow streams. 
 
 Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams. 
 
 Now let the fisherman his toils prepare. 
 
 And arm himself with every wat'ry snare ; 
 
 His hooks, his lines peruse, and careful eye, 
 
 Increase his tackle, and his rod re-tie. 
 
 Gay,
 
 212 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THEN MOUNT THE TACKLE AND THE 
 
 REEL. 
 
 Our sport is with the salmon rod, 
 
 Fine gut, tough ravel strings, 
 A hook of the true " Kir'kby bend," 
 
 Dark-bodied with white wing ; 
 Dark-bodied with white wing, my boys, 
 
 A yellow bob behind. 
 And deep red hackle, fastened round 
 
 With tinsel well entwined. 
 
 Then mount the tackle and the reel, 
 
 Is now the fisher's song. 
 For Bringhdin Dub and Carhani Wheel 
 
 Hold many a salmon strong. 
 
 A south-west wind that steady blows, 
 
 A dark grey cloudy sky, 
 A ripple o'er the waters clear, 
 
 To lead away the fly ; 
 To lead away the fly, my boys, 
 
 There, strike ! the reel goes free, 
 With a new run fish, as fresh and strong 
 
 As ever left the sea. 
 
 Then mount, &c.
 
 ON ANGLING. 213 
 
 The yielding rod bends like a bow. 
 
 And lifts him from his hold. 
 With quivering pull, and boiuiding leap, 
 
 Or steady! run so bold ; 
 The steady run so bold, my boys. 
 
 As through the stream he flies. 
 Tells with what energy he fights 
 
 Before a salmon dies. 
 
 Then mount, &c. 
 
 Reel up,' reel up ! one sullen plunge. 
 
 He takes out line no more. 
 Head down the stream, then haul him in. 
 
 He gasps upon the 'shore ; 
 He'gasps upon the shore, my boys. 
 
 His weight an English stone. 
 As beautiful a thing in death 
 
 As eye e'er gazed upon. 
 
 Then mount, &c. 
 
 The sport is o'er, and home we go, 
 
 A bumper round we bear. 
 And drink " The face we never saw, 
 
 But may it prove as fair." 
 But may it prove as fair, my boys. 
 
 Each fisher drinks with glee. 
 And benisons to-morrow's sport, 
 
 That it may better be — Then mount, &c. 
 
 M. A. FOSTBR.
 
 214 SONGS, KTC. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S MUSTER. 
 
 " Trust me, there is much Vantage in it, sir. 
 You do forget the noisy pother of mankind. 
 And win communion with sweet nature's self. 
 In plying our dear craft." — Old Play. 
 
 Haste, anglers, arise, from your pillows, arise. 
 The sun has set out in his chariot of skies. 
 And the hill must be mounted, the valley be past. 
 Ere our hooks shall be baited, our flies shall be cast. 
 Brother anglers, be stirring, and shake off night's 
 
 dream. 
 For the red trout is leaping in Avon-dale's stream. 
 
 The south wind, like sighs from the fair maiden's 
 
 breast. 
 Just ripples the water that else were at rest ; 
 The cloud, like a frown from that fair maid, scarce seen, 
 Just shadows the surface that else were serene ; 
 While honey drops, type of the lovely girl's tear. 
 Just stain the fair streamlet that else were so clear. 
 
 The meadows are deck'd in their garlands and pride, 
 The sheep-bells are tinkling the brown hills beside. 
 The trees are bedizen'd in livery of green. 
 And the birds they have roosted aneath such fair 
 screen.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 215 
 
 Then bestir, brother anglers, for nature has bred 
 Her season from you from the deep river's bed. 
 
 Then with net and with basket, the badges we prize, 
 With a can of fresh baits, a book of choice flies, 
 With hope as our messmate, with skill as our guide. 
 With good eye, steady hand, and long patience be- 
 side. 
 We'll away, we'll away, and the world's pride forget. 
 Deeming that its best jewel we had in our net. 
 
 Away, to the fishermen's muster, away! 
 
 For the sun rideth on, and he brooks no delay ; 
 
 Then ply the dun fly while his glare is on — 
 
 We can ply the dun wine when his glory is gone ; 
 
 The bowl knows no sweetener to glad the free heart. 
 
 As the triumphs we win at our innocent art. 
 
 The feast board is spread in our old brother's hall, 
 The feasters are met, at that old brother's call ; 
 And the old wine is opened, the old stories told, 
 And the old sport is toasted, which ne'er will be 
 
 old; 
 And hearts they leap gladly, and eyes cheerly gleam. 
 For the red trout is captured by Avondale stream. 
 
 fialishurti. 
 
 J. S.
 
 216 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 LINES, 
 WITH A PRESENT OF ARTIFICIAL FLIES. 
 
 When sweet Spring, my friend, shall smiling 
 
 Pour her soft and pearly dew. 
 And shall fill each grove and valley 
 
 With her flowers of varied hue : 
 
 Then shall thou, again delighted, 
 
 To the swift brooks haste away ; 
 And, thy slender weapons playing, 
 
 Tempt the fearful finny prey. 
 
 Yet amid thy healthful pleasure. 
 
 Gentle pity shall be thine ; 
 Nor upon thy hook of torture 
 
 Bid the worm in anguish twine. 
 
 When the western breeze is blowing. 
 
 Fatal to the fishy race, 
 And the sun thy sports befriending, 
 
 Veils in dusky clouds his face ; 
 
 Then take thou thy pliant angle, 
 
 Every rippling eddy try ; 
 And adown the murmuring streamlets 
 
 Draw thy well-dissembled fly.
 
 ON ANGLING.- 2l7 
 
 Soon the trout, a noble victim, 
 
 Shall requite thy patient toil ; 
 He shall seize the treacherous feather, 
 
 Thoughtless of the deadly guile. 
 
 Plunging in his loved dominion, 
 All his arts and strength he tries ; 
 
 Greater art and strength resisting, 
 S(»on the speckled monarch dies. 
 
 Plenteous spoil thy skill rewarding, 
 Thou the sedgy banks shall roam, 
 
 Till evening's shades advancing, 
 Send thee to thy cheerful home. 
 
 Blooming wife shall smile thy vveleome,. 
 
 Joyful babes shall clap thy knee ; 
 Nights of love and days of pleasure, — 
 
 Kings themselves might envy thee. 
 
 1831. Leo. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S ART. 
 
 " All arts and shapes, the wily angler tries 
 
 To cloak his fraud, and tempt the finny prize ; 
 
 Their sight, their smell, he carefully explores, 
 
 And blends the druggist's and the chemist's stores ; 
 
 Devising still with fancy ever new, 
 
 Pastes, oils, and unguents, of each scent and hue."
 
 218 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 THE ANGLER'S RETURN. 
 
 Thvdugh the long morning have I toil'd 
 
 By stream and lonely wood. 
 And 'cross the dark untrodden glen. 
 
 The sparkling trout pursued ; 
 But, deeper now, the gathering clouds 
 
 Collect along the sky. 
 And, faint and weary, warn my steps 
 
 Their homeward course to hie. 
 
 And now the driving mists withdraws 
 
 Her grey and vapoury veil, 
 I mark again the sacred bower, 
 
 I pass'd in yonder dale. 
 A little while and I shall gain 
 
 Yon hill's laborious height. 
 And then, perhaps, my humble cot, 
 
 Will cheer my grateful sight. 
 
 Ah ! now I see the smoke ascend 
 
 From forth the glimmering thatch. 
 Now my heart beats at every step. 
 
 And now I lift the latch ; 
 Now, starting from my blazing hearth. 
 
 My little children bound. 
 And, loud with shrill and clamorous joy. 
 
 Their happy sire surround.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 2] 9 
 
 How sweet, when night first wraps the world 
 
 Beneath her sable vest. 
 To sit beneath the crackling fire, 
 
 With weary limbs at rest ; 
 And think on all the labours past, 
 
 That morn's bright hours employ 'd. 
 While all that toil and danger seem'd. 
 
 Is now at home enjoy 'd. 
 
 The wild and glowing distant scenes, 
 
 Deep ravines — whistling storm — 
 Seem now, in mem'ry's mellowing eye. 
 
 To wear a softer form ; 
 And, while my Avanderings I describe, 
 
 As froths the nut-brown ale, 
 My wife and little list'ning tribe, 
 
 With wonder hear the tale. 
 
 Then soft enchanting slumbers calm, 
 
 My heavy eye-lids close, 
 And on my humble bed I sink. 
 
 To most profound repose ; 
 Save that by fits the scenes of day 
 
 Come glancing on my sight ; 
 And, touch'd by fancy's magic wand, 
 
 Seem visions of delight.
 
 220 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 HEATON MILL. 
 
 Air — " Jrva to bonnie Tweed side." 
 
 Wi' boundin' step and gladsome e'e, 
 
 I'll afffor Heatou Mill, 
 To steep the line and throw the flee 
 
 Aniang the streams o' Till. 
 My end-hook wears a woodcock wing. 
 
 Its body dubb'd wi' green. 
 The freckled drake will upmost swing, 
 
 A spider bob between. 
 
 My taper gad sae light and fair, 
 
 A clear gleg rinnin' wheel, 
 Wi' spark lin' gut like ony hair. 
 
 The tackle-book and creel ; 
 The lang sma' taper gad is swung 
 
 Around wi' easy slight. 
 Across the stream the flies are flung. 
 
 Like gossamer they light. 
 
 The water-gowan's silken stem 
 
 Floats wavin' on the tide. 
 And 'neath the flow'rets bonnie gem, 
 
 The trooties like to hide. 
 I'll try my hand — a lucky hit 
 
 May bide the ither throw, — 
 My hook's just struck the very bit. 
 
 Light as three flaiks o' snow.
 
 ON ANG1.ING. 
 
 Frae 'neath the weed a gowden gleam 
 
 Flash'd frae his burnish'd side. 
 And at the hook a boil is seen 
 
 That scarcely stirs the tide ; 
 The bendin' gad wi' stricken'd line, 
 
 Shug-shuggin' like a wand, 
 A' workin' on a thread sae fine. 
 
 Yet brings him safe to land. 
 
 There ne'er was aught in nature seen 
 
 Whose colour could outvie 
 The glitter o' its side sae green. 
 
 Bathed in the rainbow's dye. 
 The olive back, the gowden fin, 
 
 The belly's silver hue, 
 A' spread upon a pinkie skin. 
 
 That scarcely blushes through. 
 
 The mottled drops that mantle far 
 
 Out owre his spangled scale, 
 A' gUst'nin' like the gorgeous star 
 
 That gems the peacock's tail. 
 A fishing day by dam or weir 
 
 Could aye my feelings bind, 
 And muckle in't there is to cheer 
 
 A nature-loving mind. 
 
 221
 
 222 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Aneath yon auld saugh tree I'll lean 
 
 Upon a mossy seat, 
 Wi' Tiptoe braes afore my een, 
 
 Till streamin' at my feet ; 
 And list the sandy lav'rock's ca', 
 
 Lood wheepliu' out his strain. 
 Or sweet sang o' yon water craw, 
 
 Doup doupin' on the stane. 
 
 Gude e'en — the day is wearin' ben. 
 
 Far wast the sun has row'd. 
 The trees adown steep Twizel Glen 
 
 Are steep'd in burnish 'd gowd. 
 May peace and plenty mingle there. 
 
 And saftly row the Till, 
 For welcome kind to hamely fare 
 
 Is aye at Heaton Mill. 
 
 Foster. 
 
 THE HAUNTS OF FISH. 
 
 In deeps the silver Salmon loves to rove. 
 
 And marly swifts allure the Barbel drove. 
 
 Sharp streams delight the Trout ; still deeps the 
 
 Bream, 
 The fearful Chub, he loves the shaded stream, 
 I'l shady holes and hollow banks, the Perch he dwells. 
 And, for his boldness, the finny race excels ;
 
 ON ANGLING. 223 
 
 Roach and Dace the sandy bottom choose. 
 And Carp the weeds, and Tench the muddy ooze, 
 In streams with gravel bottoms Gudgeon do delight, 
 The wanton Bleak will ever sport in sight, 
 The Pike, the tyrant of the finny brood. 
 Near woods and sedges lies lurking for his food. 
 Hammersmith, 1846. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come over the moor, come over the lea. 
 Come down by the banks of the rippling Dee ; 
 Bring rod in your hand, with right njerry heart, 
 That nature may sport, and full pleasure impart. 
 
 Come forth in the morn, 'fore the lark mounts the sky. 
 Let firm be your step, and lively your eye ; 
 For stern fate has decreed, and stubborn his will. 
 That sport we shall have, our baskets we'll hll. 
 
 Over the mountain, and over the dale, 
 On banks of the streams, where zephyr's prevail, 
 With skill in our throws and an angler's eye, 
 The haunts of the trout we'll surely descry. 
 
 When ev'ning has come, and chill is the dew. 
 We'll spy out some spot, our strength to renew ; 
 We'll open the flask with jovial glee. 
 And cheer for the maids who live near the Dee. 
 Chester, 1831.
 
 224 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 ANGLING REMINISCENCES. 
 
 The last time I fisli'd down this stream, 
 
 I pass'd my Anne's cot, 
 The fleeting scene is like a dream, 
 
 Still ne'er to be forgot. 
 Her rudy cheek and dimpl'd smile, 
 
 Caught my enchanted eye ; 
 With coyness shy, devoid of guile. 
 
 She beckon'd me hard by. 
 
 I threw the rod into the glade, 
 
 And press'd her hand a while. 
 By tales of love, the gentle maid, 
 
 I won her graceful smile. 
 She vow'd to me that true she'd be. 
 
 No wandering thought retain ; 
 And I, in turn, with rapt'rous glee. 
 
 Allegiance swore again. 
 
 Ere long, by Hymen's happy chains. 
 
 Two hearts were made to one. 
 She's sooth'd for years my growing pains. 
 
 And cheer'd me when alone. 
 To me, therefore, this purling rill. 
 
 Has prov'd a source of gain ; 
 May love and peace — the rod and creel. 
 
 Its future fame maintain. 
 1781.
 
 Q 
 
 ON ANGLING. 225 
 
 THE SALMON RUN, 
 Air,—" The Brave Old Oak." 
 
 Oh ! away to the Tweed, 
 
 To the beautiful Tweed, 
 My muchJoved native stream, 
 
 Where the hsh from his hold, 
 
 'Neath some cataract boki. 
 Starts up like a quivering gleam. 
 
 To the Tweed, then, so pure, 
 
 Where the wavelets can lure 
 The King of the waters to roam, 
 
 As he shoots far and free. 
 
 Through the boundless sea. 
 To the halls of his silvery home. 
 
 From his iron-bound keep. 
 
 Far down in the deep, 
 He holds on his sovereign sway — 
 
 Or darts like a lance. 
 
 Or the meteor's glance. 
 Afar on his bright-wing'd prey. 
 
 As he roves through the tide, 
 
 Then his clear glitt'ring side 
 Is burnish'd with silver and i^old • 
 
 And the sweep of his Hight 
 
 Seems a rainbow of light. 
 As again he sinks down in his hold.
 
 226 Sf)NGS, ETC. 
 
 Oh ! then hasten with speed 
 To the clear running Tweed, 
 
 The river of beaut}- and song, 
 
 Where the rod swinging high 
 Throws a Coldstream dress'd fly 
 
 O'er the hold of the salmon so strong. 
 
 With a soft western breeze 
 
 That just thrills through the trees. 
 
 And ripples the beautiful bay. 
 Throw the fly for a lure — 
 That's a rise ! strike him sure — 
 
 A clean fish — with a burst he's away- 
 
 Hark ! the ravel line sweel. 
 
 From the fast whirring reel, 
 With a music that gladdens the ear ; 
 
 And the thrill of delight, 
 
 In that glorious fight. 
 To the heart of the angler is dear. 
 
 Hold him tight ! — for the leap ; 
 
 Where ^the waters are deep 
 Give out line in the far steady run ; 
 
 Reel up quick, if he tire. 
 
 Though the wheel be on fire, 
 For in earnest to work he's bes'un.
 
 ON ANGLING. 227 
 
 Aroused up at length. 
 
 How he rolls in his strength, 
 And springs with a quivering bound : 
 
 Then away with a dash. 
 
 Like the lightning's flash. 
 Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground. 
 
 Though he strain on the thread, 
 
 Down the stream with his head — 
 That burst from the run makes him cool — 
 
 Then spring out for the land. 
 
 On the rod change (he hand. 
 And draw down for the deepening pool. 
 
 Mark the gleam of his side 
 
 As he shoots through the tide — 
 Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair ? 
 
 Fatigue now begins, 
 
 For his quivering fins 
 On the shallows are spread in despair. 
 
 His length now we'll stretch 
 
 On the smooth sandy beach. 
 With the flap from his gills waxiug slow ; 
 
 The sport of an hour 
 
 Spent the strength of his power. 
 And the fresh-water monarch lies low.
 
 228 SONOS, ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 On yon fair brook's enamel I'd side. 
 Behold my Chloe stands ; 
 
 My angle trembles o'er the tide. 
 As conscious of her hands. 
 
 Calm as the gentle M'aves appear, 
 Her thoughts serenely &ow ; 
 
 Calm as the softly breathing air, 
 That curls the brook below. 
 
 Such charms her sparkling eyes disclose, 
 With such soft power endu'd. 
 
 She seems a new-born Venus, rose 
 From the transparent flood. 
 
 From each green bank and mossy cave 
 
 The scaly race repair ; 
 They sport beneath the crystal wave. 
 
 And kiss her image there. 
 
 *o^ 
 
 How bright the silver eel, enroll'd 
 
 In shining volumes lies ; 
 There basks the carp bedropp'd with gold, 
 
 In the sunshine of her eyes.
 
 ON ANGLING. 229 
 
 With hungry pikes in wanton play, 
 
 The timorous trouts appear ; 
 The hungry pikes forget to prey, 
 
 The timorous trouts to fear. 
 
 With equal haste the thoughtless crew. 
 
 To the fair tempter fly, 
 Nor grieve they, whilst their eyes they view. 
 
 That by her hand they die. 
 
 Thus I, too, view'd the nymph of late 
 
 Ah ! simple fish beware ; 
 Soon will you find my wretched fate. 
 
 And struggle in the snare. 
 
 But, fair one, though these toils succeed. 
 
 Of conquest be not vain ; 
 Nor think o'er all the scaly breed, 
 
 Unpunish'd thus to reign. 
 
 Remember, in a wat'ry glass. 
 His charms Narcissus spied ; 
 
 When for his own bewitching face, 
 The youth dcspair'd and disd.
 
 280 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 A CALL. 
 
 Awake, my boys — awake, arise ! 
 The grey light of the eastern skies 
 
 Is blushing into day ; 
 The lark is up, and carols clear, 
 Then, wherefore are vou lingering here ? 
 My gallant boys, away. 
 With rod and creel, till set of sun, 
 
 O'er hill and dale we'll go ; 
 And, ere the light shall fade in night, 
 Full many a trout that springs to sight. 
 Will, bleeding, quiver low. 
 
 The pebbly streams, whose niurm'ring sound 
 Doth fill the ear and air around. 
 
 And heather bells between ; 
 Afar the hills look blue and bright. 
 And near the streams in golden light, 
 
 Enclose the glorious scene. 
 
 With rod and creel, &c. 
 
 Hold ! see the tiout ! he plunges deep. 
 Now rises, gives a springing leap, 
 
 And rushes down the rill ; 
 Whirr! whirr I the line runs off the reel 
 He slap-dash runs just like the de'il. 
 
 But mark ! he's got his fill. 
 
 With rod and creel, &c.
 
 ON ANGLING. 231 
 
 Thus by the streams we'll bend our way, 
 In healthful sport, with spirits gay, 
 
 Till eve's chill shadows fall ; 
 Then, wearied, home our steps retrace. 
 To greet some dear expectant face, 
 
 A joy more sweet than all. 
 
 With rod and creel, &c. 
 
 THE FLY. 
 
 Mark well the various seasons of the year, 
 
 How the succeeding insect race appear. 
 
 In their revolving moon one colour reigns, 
 
 Which, in the next, the fickle trout disdains. 
 
 Oft have I seen a skilful angler try 
 
 The various colours of the treach'rous fly ; 
 
 When he with fruitless pain hath skim'd the brook. 
 
 And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook. 
 
 He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow, 
 
 Which o'er the stream a weaving forest throw : 
 
 When if an insect fall (his certain guide) 
 
 He gently takes him from the whirling tide ; 
 
 Examines well his form with curious eyes. 
 
 His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, and size ; 
 
 Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds, 
 
 And on the back a speckled feather binds ; 
 
 So just the colours shine through ev'ry part. 
 
 That nature seems to live again in art. — Gay.
 
 252 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 On thy banks, limpid Thames, as I stand. 
 
 To hook the keen glutton below, 
 As the breeze flows refreshing and bland, 
 
 I am tempted my hair-line to throw. 
 
 Nor thy waters alone can delight, 
 The herbage, the landscape, appear 
 
 To enrapture my wandering sight, 
 As the music of birds charms the ear. 
 
 If my cork, faithful friend, sinks below. 
 At the bite of the barbel or bream, 
 
 To sec what thy clear currents bestow, 
 I draw up my prize from the stream. 
 
 In the sunbeams he glitters, for liberty tries. 
 But his efforts are vain, and he tires ; 
 
 And, finding no way of escape to devise. 
 In the pure open air he expires. 
 
 Your heroes, (I sing), round the world let them 
 Or for honour seek death in the field ; [|roam. 
 
 We anglers are happy, in quiet at home. 
 With such sports as the rivulets yield. 
 
 At our humble pursuits let the casuist go frown, 
 
 Our pastime 'tis mine to defend ; 
 But not like the lowman, bred up in the town, 
 
 To beggar the purse of a friend.
 
 ON ANGLING. 233 
 
 Such are our pleasures the summer's day long, 
 While there's fish in the streamlets or brooks. 
 
 In praise of the angler, let this be our song, 
 Who delight in the line and the hook. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 My lover he lives by the pure river side. 
 Where trout and the salmon in harmony bide ; 
 He's known far and near for skill with the tiy, 
 And the soft twinkle which juts from his eye. 
 
 The rod in his hand, and line on his reel. 
 With warmth in his heart, and life in his heel. 
 He treads by the banks of the purling rill. 
 Drops in by my cot when evening is still. 
 
 The soft tone of waters that glide through the lea. 
 Fall short of his accents, so loving to me ; 
 Tender and pure, with kindly emotion. 
 He presses my hand with ardent devotion. 
 
 No vice n)ais his fame, but gently he j)lies. 
 With ardour and glee, his art with his Hies ; 
 With honour and worth his name is entwin'd. 
 And truth and love in his soul are combin'd. 
 
 Exeter, 17^7-
 
 234 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 BALL A D. 
 
 Written, but never published; on a fracas 
 
 fit a Meeting of Anglers at the Duke of Buccleuch's 
 
 seat in ScotlaJid. 
 
 On Tweed's fair banks a castle stands 
 
 O'erspread with mossy green. 
 And round its walls a moat remains, 
 
 Fell foes to intervene. 
 
 'Twas in the days of angling feats. 
 When Jim Hogg held the sway. 
 
 Whose name and memory yet survive, 
 Until this very day ; 
 
 That Wilson on a visit came. 
 With many an angling knight, 
 
 To Buccleuch, lord of these domains, 
 In fishing armour bright, 
 
 Duke Buccleuch said, come, seated be, 
 
 All at the welcome board ; 
 And, ladies kind, who honour me, 
 
 Take what these walls afford. 
 
 It would be long to give detail 
 
 Of such a sumptuous fair ; 
 But, for a part, I'll take the whole. 
 
 And artlessly declare :
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 i35 
 
 For choicest meats, aud richest viands, 
 
 And wines of foreign climes ; 
 A banquet such was scarcely seen, 
 
 Before, or till these times. 
 
 Now, cloth withdrawn, and dinner o'er. 
 
 Was on the table placed 
 A cup of curious massive gold. 
 
 With mantling fish enlac'd. 
 
 This Buccleuch took in both his hands. 
 
 And says — unto the King 
 A health I give, long may he live. 
 
 And we of victories sing. 
 
 Then to his lips he press'd the cup. 
 
 And drank it from the brim ; 
 His face he lav'd in crimson dye, 
 
 And wash'd his locks so trim. 
 
 And unto Wilson next he said. 
 
 Thy prowess is well known. 
 For it appears this angling day. 
 
 That thou hast gained renown.* 
 
 * 1 he writer ot tins atftrms. that the Professor had, th*- 
 day alluded to, killed eleven dozen of trout and three »al- 
 mon, in less than three hnurH.
 
 236 SONGS, KTC. 
 
 Oft had the goblet flow'd with wine, 
 
 And oft its course had run, 
 When Wilson rose with pleasantry. 
 
 Divested of all fun : — 
 
 " Jim Hogg," said he, " a toast I give, 
 
 And to my heart most dear, 
 It's our NocTES, old Scotland's pride, 
 
 Who ne'er a foe did fear." 
 
 Jim Hogg raised up his nervous arm, 
 
 And, by the temple, swore 
 That language such as he had us'd. 
 
 Should be allow'd no more.* 
 
 Christopher North, with downcast look, 
 
 '• I own the fault in me, 
 And of Earl Buccleuch pardon ask. 
 
 For such a liberty. 
 
 The boon old Kit has craved is given. 
 
 But first a reprimand ,• 
 Then friendship, peace, and unity, 
 
 Gave Buccleuch, in demand. 
 
 • Hogg had frequently remonstrated with Blackwood's 
 people about the liberty they took with his conversations 
 in the Noctes, but little or no attention was paid to him. 
 At last he grew very testy upon the subject. This was the 
 cause of his taking the Professor's joke so hotly up at this 
 convivial party. The Duke of Buccleuch was a kind friend 
 to the shepherd. R. B.
 
 0N ANGLiING. 23^ 
 
 And oft the flowing bowl went round, 
 
 And oft was fill'd anew. 
 Until Am-ora usher'd in 
 
 Her streaks of varied hue. 
 
 Then each unto his chamber went. 
 
 To sleep an hour away, 
 Until the footman wak'd them up. 
 
 To fish the live-long day. 
 
 LINES. 
 No more the angler's silent trade 
 I ply ; aside my taclile's laid ; 
 My hooks are rusted ; of my flies 
 Consuming moths have made a prize. 
 At dewy morn or evening grey 
 With rod in hand no more I stray 
 By Teviot, Bowmout, Hail, or Tweed, 
 By Liddel, Yarrow Foot, or Reid, 
 By Glen or Coquet, Till or Tyne ; — 
 'Tis three years since I wet a line ! 
 For fishing 1 am " off* the hooks ;" 
 I've also shelved my angling books ; 
 Old Walton's page no more I con, 
 Young Stephen's occupation's gone ! 
 Young Stephen once, — now, well-a-day^ 
 He's forty-two, and turning grey. 
 lUlk May, 1H4J. Stephen Omvkr.
 
 238 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 S O N G. 
 BY CHARMING WANSSECK SIDE. 
 
 O! Mary, look, how sweetly Spring 
 
 Revives each opening flower. 
 Here in this copse, where thrushes sing, 
 
 I'll form a summer bower ; 
 Beneath whose shade, in sultry day. 
 
 We'll see the river glide, 
 And trouts their sportive gambols play, 
 
 On charming Wansbeck side. 
 
 At morn I'll mark how softly shine 
 
 Thy eye so deeply blue ; 
 Or, tempted thereby, press to mine 
 
 Thy lips so rosy hue. 
 To breathe the wholesome air, Me'll rove 
 
 Among the hazles wide, 
 And rest betimes to speak of love, 
 
 By charming Wansbeck side. 
 
 With rod in hand, and gentle gale, 
 
 We'll tread the banks so fair ; 
 The violet sM^eet and cowslip pale. 
 
 We'll pluck to wreath thy hair. 
 By rocky banks and gushing streams 
 
 Thy graceful steps I'll guide, 
 To spots where nature loveliest seems, 
 
 By charming Wansbeck side.
 
 ON ANGLING. 
 
 2^1> 
 
 Aud when we've seen each rocky dale, 
 
 Where hang the dews of morn, 
 Each winding, deep, romantic vale. 
 
 Each snow-white blossom'd thorn ; 
 From every charm I'll turn to you, 
 
 And think my loving bride 
 More sweet than aught that meets my view 
 
 By charming Wansbeck side. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 When smiling felicity warbles her song, 
 
 The soul-touching numbers harmoniously flow. 
 
 The moments of gladness come swiftly along. 
 And bid all the feelings of ecstacy glow. 
 
 Thus, reclined with his rod, by the banks of a brook 
 The swain of the mountains melodiously sung ; 
 Joy trilled in the sound of his musical tongue. 
 
 The sunshine of happiness beamed in his look. 
 
 The Bard of Glajxokgan.
 
 240 SONGS. £TC. 
 
 WE'RE ALL FISHING. 
 
 (A Parody.) 
 
 We're all fishing, fish, fish, fisliiiig, 
 
 We're all fishing, in country aud in town ; 
 
 When a very little boy, a fishing he will go, 
 
 But should his parents find him out, he'd often catch 
 
 a blow ; 
 Sometimes he'd play the wag with a worm upon his 
 
 pin. 
 But if he does not mind he'll slip and tumble in. 
 For we're all a fishing, &c. 
 
 As the boy gets older, his courage it gets bolder. 
 His rod and line he throws aside to fish another way ; 
 In the first place, I opine, all endeavours he will try. 
 To court the pretty girls, and that too on the sly. 
 Though scarcely in his teens he is thinking of a wife. 
 So we're all a fishing. &c. 
 
 There are many yet are fishers, fish, fish, fishers, 
 But to enumerate them would be an endless task ; 
 The lawyer he goes fishing for a i-lient, and should he 
 Catch a gudgeon, he'd very soon go hshing for his 
 
 fee ; 
 For myself, too, I go fishing, and if a smile I cause. 
 Shall have caught the fish I fish'd for — your very 
 
 kind applause. 
 
 So we're all a fishing, &c.
 
 ON ANGLING 241 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 Of all the recreations which 
 
 Attend on human nature, 
 There's none that's of so high a pitch 
 
 Or is of such a stature, 
 As is the subtile angler's life. 
 
 In all men's approbation ; 
 For angler's tricks do daily mix, 
 
 In every corporation. 
 
 Whilst Eve and Adam liv'd in love, 
 
 And had no cause for jangling. 
 The devil did the waters move, 
 
 The serpent M^ent to angling ; 
 He baits his hook with god-like look. 
 
 Thought he, this will entangle her, 
 By this ye all may plainly see. 
 
 That the devil was first an angler. 
 
 Physicians, lawyers, and divines. 
 
 Are almost neat entanglers ; 
 And he that looketh fine, will find 
 
 That most of them are anglers. 
 Whilst grave divines do fish for souls, 
 
 Physicians, like curmudffeons. 
 They bait v/ith health, we fish for wealth. 
 
 And lawyers fish for gudgeons. 
 R
 
 242 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Upou the Exchange, 'twixt twelve and one. 
 
 Meets many a neat entangler ; 
 *Mongst merchantmen, not one in ten, 
 
 But what's a cunning angler. 
 For, like the fishes in the brook, 
 
 Brother doth swallow brother ; 
 There's a golden bait^hangs at the hook. 
 
 And they fish for one another. 
 
 A shopkeeper, I next prefer. 
 
 He's a formal man in black, sir. 
 He throws his angle everywhere. 
 
 And cries^ what is't ye lack, sir ? 
 Fine silks or stufi^s, cravats or cuffs : 
 
 But if a courtier prove the entangler. 
 My citizen must look to it then. 
 
 Or the fish will catch the angler. 
 
 But if you'll trowl for a scrivener's soul. 
 
 Cast in a rich young gallant ; 
 To take a courtier by the poll, 
 
 Throw in a golden talent. 
 But yet I fear, the draught will ne'er 
 
 Compound for half the charge on'ti 
 But if you'll catch the devil at stretch. 
 
 You nrust bait him with a sergeant.
 
 ON ANGLING. 243 
 
 Thus 1 have made my angler's trade. 
 
 To stand above defiance ; 
 For, like the mathematic art, 
 
 It runs through every science. 
 If, with my angling song, I can 
 
 To mirth and pleasure lead you ; 
 I'll bait my hook with wit again. 
 
 And angle still to please you. 
 
 THE LAMENT. 
 
 Oh ! the days when we went an angling, 
 
 A long time ago. 
 Were certainly the jolliest 
 
 A man could ever know ; 
 In happy independence, 
 
 We the cup of pleasure sipp'd. 
 And never knew what 'twas to feel 
 
 Blue-devilish or hipp'd. 
 No rankling cares, nor sulky fits. 
 
 In ease our line did throw. 
 In the days when we went an angling, 
 
 A long time ago.
 
 244 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 'Twas then we used to roam about, 
 
 Not tied to time or place, 
 Aud fearlessly and skilfully 
 
 Hook trout, or pike, or dace ; 
 Might dwell on lishing exploits — 
 
 Praise our dodges to the skies, 
 And even now and then, 
 
 Isaac Walton criticise ; 
 But dare we think of such things now ? 
 
 And echo answers. No ! 
 As we did when we went an angling, 
 
 A long time ago. 
 
 Ah ! where, alas, are now 
 
 The angling evening coteries, 
 When, free from all corroding cares. 
 
 We quaff 'd our glass at ease ? 
 Where now the jovial songster, 
 
 With his weli-remember'd tones, 
 The fine-flavour'd London stout, 
 
 Whisky-toddy — devill'd bones ? 
 Alas ! no devill'd bones have we. 
 
 No more our clouds we blow, 
 As we did when we went an angling. 
 
 A long time ago.
 
 ON ANGLING. 245 
 
 ON PISHING IN THE RIVER SAONE, 
 IN FRANCE. 
 
 No fairer land can meet the eye, 
 Than skirts thy banks, O Saone ; 
 
 Nor groves so sweet, and gardens green. 
 Nor lovelier skies e'er shone. 
 
 Thy gorgeous shades ne'er seem to tire 
 
 The angler's graphic eye ; 
 When streams gush out with sparkling foam, 
 
 And purples fires the sky. 
 
 Thy waters play, and flowers adorn 
 
 Thy banks so fair and green ; 
 And birds of richest plumage rest. 
 
 In wooded copse unseen. 
 
 The trout regales in clearest streams, 
 
 And shows his golden hue ; 
 The angler plies his art with zest. 
 
 Nor need his labour rue. 
 
 Thy upper streams, when near thy source. 
 
 No richer scene can show ; 
 And e'en when traffic soils thy breast, 
 
 Thy streams with grandeur Row, 
 
 No angling pleasures can be found 
 
 More racv and more sweet. 
 Than on thy hallow'd banks to roam, 
 
 When wisdom guides the feet.
 
 246 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 ON THE DEE AND THE DON. 
 
 But I'll tak' leave o' queenly Dee, 
 
 And view her modest sister, Don, 
 For there the dearest spots to me 
 
 Were Kettock's Mill an' Tillydrone. 
 There lanely, in the pale moonlight, 
 
 Ha'e I indulg'd my waukin' dream, 
 Until the vvitchin' hour o' night. 
 
 Beside her calm unruffled stream. 
 
 Through Seaton vale uncheck'd I've rang'd. 
 
 Where lav'rocks sing an' wild flow'rs grow. 
 But, ah ! the scene is fairly chang'd 
 
 From what it was lang years ago. 
 Through spots where we, mang broom and whin, 
 
 Ha'e harrit nests an' howkit bykes. 
 We daurna gang and canna win 
 
 For fences, rails, an' live-feet dykes. 
 
 The little path that we ha'e trod 
 
 Sae aft, the worldlin' winna spare- 
 He filches e'en the ancient road 
 
 Our fathers took to kirk an' fair. 
 Though the usurper be a lord, 
 
 My hearty benisons I gi'e 
 To ilk bauld son o' bon-accord, 
 
 VVha wishes still his streamlets free.
 
 ON ANGLING. 247 
 
 MY NATIVE STREAMS. 
 
 I winna sing o* war nor wine, 
 
 Nor love, though they be peerless themes ; 
 But o' the fav'rite haunts o' mine 
 
 By Dee an' Don, my native streams. 
 There I ha'e sought the lintie's nest, 
 
 Or hunted bees upon the braes, 
 There 1 ha'e " stray'd wi' care opprest," 
 
 There I ha'e lilted cheerfu' lays. 
 
 There's nae a crook noo roond aboot, 
 
 Frae Pognernook to Eildou Tree, 
 Where I've nae catch'd the silver trout. 
 
 Upon the winding banks o' Dee. 
 Ilk hour I dookit in her tide, 
 
 That I frae school or wark could spare ; 
 There I ha'e gather'd rasps — beside 
 
 I woo'd and won my Nannie there. 
 
 There 1 ha'e heard, at break o' day, 
 
 The blackbird chaunt his early sang, 
 The mavis, at the gloamin' grey, 
 
 Wake slumberin' echoes till they rang. 
 Fu' aft, in some bit plantin' snug, 
 
 Wi' books I've wiled awa the time ; 
 Or wandered by the auld Craiglug, 
 
 An' strung ray scraps o' simple rhyme.
 
 24S SONGS, ETC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come, anglers, come, for work prepare. 
 The scaly race demands our care ; 
 The tears of morn in rain-drops fall. 
 Sweet tears of bliss^ to anglers all. 
 Bring forth your tackle, bait, and hooks, 
 The watery world divinely looks ! 
 Come, anglers, come, nor longer stay. 
 We must, we shall have sport to-day. 
 
 See yonder trout, how proudly shy — 
 But on the stream-king keep your eye ; 
 lie must be taken — huok'd ere long. 
 To raise the smile and laud the song ; 
 The fly lines plays — the fish bite well — 
 And who kills most, boys — time will tell : 
 Yes, anglers, yes, for truth to say. 
 Our sport, sweet sport, is good to-day. 
 
 How runs the time ? yet, what care we, 
 For care or time, while here we be ? 
 Weil caught ! that jack prolongs our stay ; 
 We cannot — must not get away. 
 Bravo ! that greedy perch too cries. 
 We must have more, to feast our eyes ; 
 Yes, anglers, yes, for fame to say, 
 Our sport, svieet sport, is good to-day.
 
 ON ANGLING. 249 
 
 The owl-bird flies, the shade-scene falls, 
 
 And home, boys, home, the " night bell calls ;" 
 
 There, there to chaant the festive strain. 
 
 And drink old Isaac o'er again. 
 
 Great Walton ! whose piscatory skill, 
 
 Shall long a place iu memory fill. 
 
 Shall live for truth's glad tongue to say, 
 
 *■ Success to angling night or day." 
 
 S O N G, 
 
 Now the finny brood united, 
 
 O'er th<! bu(»vant liquid sweep. 
 Or, lost in wanton sport delighted, 
 Plunge adowu the azure deep. 
 Yielding to the wily plan 
 Of the jolly fisherman. 
 
 Softly sweet the breeze is blowing, 
 
 Wand'ring streamlets swell the flood ; 
 While with health and pleasure glowing, 
 Jocund paatime yields us food ; 
 Crowning gav the wily plan 
 Of the jollv fisherman.
 
 250 S0W08, £TC. 
 
 THE MORNING EARLY. 
 TuNB — " Corn Riggs." 
 
 It's jate^ my lad, to tak' the gad. 
 
 All nature's now in motion ; 
 The floods o' May ha'e swept away 
 
 The sawmon's fry to ocean ; 
 In Dewshill, lang, the throstle's sang 
 
 He's been rehearsin' cheerly ; 
 Our only line's " far aif an' fine," 
 
 And tak' the mornin' airly. 
 
 Up through the glens, amang the stanes. 
 
 The burns wi' heat seem dryin' ; 
 Slaw, tired and still, by Little Mill, 
 
 Wi' worm the Shades'man's hiein ; 
 Ahiut the bush, that bauds the thrush, 
 
 He now can shelter rarely ; 
 Our only line's " far afF an' fine," 
 
 And tak' the mornin' airly. 
 
 At Alwinton, the Washin's on, 
 
 And loud the lads are singin', 
 To see the sheep spang, soom and dreep, 
 
 The dale's wi' laughter's ringin' ; 
 Het, tired, an' dry, the thirsty kye 
 
 The fords are taking fairly. 
 Our only line's " far aff an' fine," 
 
 And tak' the morning airly.
 
 ON ANGLING. 251 
 
 Yet, through the trees, there's still a breeze ; 
 
 The pool the gale is curliug ; 
 Beneath the beam, the glitterin' stream 
 
 Is owre the pebbles purling ; 
 We're no' the sort to lose our sport. 
 
 Because the stream rins clearly, 
 But thraw the Hue " far aff an' fine," 
 
 An' tak' the mornin' airly. 
 
 The gleg e'ed trout we'll pick him out, 
 
 Amang the stanes fu' deftly. 
 Our flies shall fa', the verra snaw 
 
 Can come nae dovrn sae saftly ; 
 We'll 'tice them here, we'll 'tice them there. 
 
 What though they loup but sparely, 
 Wi' a cast o' line " far aff an' fine," 
 
 All in the mornin' airlv. 
 
 When floods come down, a callant loon 
 
 May catch them wi' a tether, 
 And sawmon roe be a' " the go," 
 
 For gowks in rainy weather ; 
 But gie to me the light midge flie, 
 
 When streams are rinnin' clearly, 
 And a cast o' line " far aff an' fine," 
 
 All in the mornin' airly. 
 
 Newcastle, July \xt, 1845. R. R.
 
 232 SONGS, KTC. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Anxious by the gliding stream, 
 See the steady angler watch. 
 Trying every wily scheme. 
 
 The heedless finny tribe to catch. 
 Hush ! hush ! not a breath, 
 I've a nibble — still as death ! 
 Strike, strike — play it, play it. 
 Sure it's a weed ; zounds ! 'tis a weed. 
 
 Now the drizzling rains descend. 
 
 Then the sheltering trees we court ; 
 Still our watchful looks we bend. 
 Rain and clouds insure our sport. 
 Hush ! hush ! I've a bite. 
 We shall have rare sport to-night ; 
 Play it. play it — strike, strike, 
 Ht*w it tugs — 'tis a pike. 
 
 He weakens, now we get it to the shore. 
 He snaps our line — we are baulk'd once more ; 
 Then home we go, the tale is told. 
 That we have caught — caught what ? a cold. 
 Oh, the joys — oh, the joys. 
 The joys, the joys of angling, 
 The joys, the joys of angling, 
 The joys, the joys of angling.
 
 ON ANGLING. 253 
 
 THE THAMES. 
 As late by the Thames's verdant side, 
 
 With a solitary pensive air, 
 Fair Chloe search'd the silver tide, 
 
 With pleasing hope and patient care. 
 Forth as she cast the silken fly, 
 
 And musing stroll'd the bank along, 
 She thought no list'ning ear was nigh, 
 
 "While thus she tun'd her moral song. 
 
 " The poor unhappy, thoughtless fair, 
 
 Like the mute race, are oft undone ; 
 These, with a gilded fly vre snare, 
 
 With gilded flatt'ry those are won. 
 Careless, like them, they frolic round. 
 
 And sporting toss th' alluring bait ; 
 At length they feel the treach'rous wound. 
 
 And struggle to be free too late. 
 
 " But, ah ! fair fools, beneath this show 
 
 Of gaudy colours, lurks a hook ; 
 Cautious the bearded mischief view. 
 
 And, ere you leap, be sure to look." 
 More she'd have sung — when, from the shade, 
 
 Rush'd forth gay Damon, brisk and young ; 
 And whatsoe'er he did or said, 
 
 Poor Chloe quite forgot her song.
 
 254 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 ANGLING IN LOCH NEAGH. 
 
 O ! bold singing spirit of Loch Neagh's lovely vale. 
 How sweet is thy music, how charming thy tale ; 
 When my mind's made to dwell on those that are gone, 
 When I trace not their footsteps, but wander alone. 
 When my angling companions have all gone away. 
 Then 1 think on those sports that are stampt with 
 decay. 
 
 Still lovely to me are thy waters so bright, 
 
 Thy fine sparkling trout and thy breezes so light ; 
 
 How oft on thy bosom I've guided the oar. 
 
 To friends show'd thy beauties, ne'er witness'd before. 
 
 When with rapture we heard thy wild Irish strain, 
 
 Ah ! when shall such sounds be re-echoed again. 
 
 How oft on thy banks so flow'ry and grand. 
 
 When the moon sheds her silvery rays on the land, 
 
 I've thrown the long line in thy long inland deeps. 
 
 Where the ponderous pike in security sleeps; 
 
 And have waited with patience the first dawn of day. 
 
 So noble a prize I might carry away. 
 
 May thy banks and thy landscapes long keep their roll. 
 May they long please the eye and ravish the soul ; 
 Thy scenes may the angler with glee long repair. 
 To handle the rod, and his full sport to share ; 
 Fornought can surpass the sweet pleasure which glows 
 From sources which beauties so varied disclose. 
 BaUymenn, 1844.
 
 ON ANGLING. 256 
 
 ANGLER'S CHANT. 
 
 Up ! angler up ! and be off to the river, 
 
 Your heart light and free with the pleasure you fee! ; 
 
 Nor care though with rain or with cold you may 
 shiver. 
 Provided with fish you replenish your creel. 
 
 Up ! angler up ! 'tis the season for slaughter. 
 The morning is cheering, the weather is tine ; 
 
 The fish are on feed, in good order the water. 
 
 Then haste to the streams with your rod and your 
 line. 
 
 With skill cast your bait, whether throwing the flies. 
 Of the various kinds which " an old fisher" names ; 
 
 Enticing the grazling or salmon to rise, 
 
 Or spining for large heavy trout on the Thames. 
 
 Or, fishing the bottom, for barbel you search, 
 
 Or for roach, with a hair, or for bream, it may hap, 
 
 Or dipping for chub and for dace, or for perch. 
 Or for pike trollijng with gorge, hook, or snap. 
 
 However attractive your line may be made. 
 
 When you fish from the bank, when you fish from 
 a boat. 
 
 May your skill be rewarded, your labour repaid. 
 In using the gudgeon, the fly, or the float.
 
 256 SONGS. ETC. 
 
 S O N G. 
 
 Bright hlaz'd the lire of crackling wood. 
 
 And threw around a charming gleam ; 
 In front a vast oak table stood — 
 
 A bacon-rack hung from the beam : 
 Pipes, mugs, the chimney-piece well grac'd, — 
 
 Tn rows the fishing-rods hung o'er ; 
 On each side otter skins were placed, 
 
 Rap, rap — cries dame, who's at the door ? 
 Chorus — Some jolly anglers, loud they bawl, 
 T' enjoy the pastime at Trout-Hall. 
 
 Bright as hei fire glow'd dame's plump face. 
 
 As her old friends she welcom'd kind ; 
 " Here ! Joan and Doily, clear the place. 
 
 Tap the humming ale, d'ye mind ? 
 First fetch my bottle of right Nantz, 
 
 The ev'ning air is keen and raw ; 
 My friends of cold shall run to chance — 
 
 You'll pledge me, gentlemen, I know." 
 Chorus — Come, jolly anglers, one and all. 
 
 You're kindly welcome to Trout-Hall. 
 
 Their stomachs fortified, around 
 
 The sparkling fire the anglers spread ; 
 
 •Fill pipes, crack jokes, the walls resound 
 With laughter that might rouse the dea«i.
 
 ON ANGLING. ^§7 
 
 The supper on the table smokes, 
 
 Round the oak board they take their seats ; 
 Now din of knives, forks, plates — no jokes, 
 
 Right earnest Aldermanic feats. 
 Chorus — i\Iuch good may't do each honest soul, 
 Each true bred brother of Trout-Hall. 
 
 The supper o'er, well fill'd each guest, 
 
 Dame with her private flask appears ; 
 Hopes they are pleas'd — " She's done her best," 
 
 They greet th* old worthy with three cheers : 
 Again fill tankard, pipe, and bowl — 
 
 Joke, tale, and toast, and song go round ; 
 Begone dull care, shouts every soul, 
 
 To thee this is forbidden ground. 
 Chorus — Begone, thou never canst enthral 
 The jolly anglers at Trout-Hall. 
 
 THE TROUT. 
 When atop the hoary western hill, 
 
 The ruddie sun appears to rest his chin, 
 When not a breeze disturbs the murmuring rill 
 
 And mildlie warm the falling dews begin. 
 
 The gamesome trout then shows her silvery skin, 
 As wantonly beneath the wave she glides, 
 
 Watching the buzzing flies, that never blin. 
 Then, dropt with pearle and golde, displays her sides, 
 While she with frequent leape the ruffled streame 
 divides.
 
 258 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 On the green bank a truant school-boy stands ; 
 
 Well has this urchin mark't her mery play. 
 And ashen rod obeys his guileful hands, 
 
 And leads the mimick fly across her way ; 
 
 Askannce, with listly look and coy delay. 
 The hungrie trout the glitterannd treacher eyes, 
 
 Semblant of life, with speckled wings so gay ; 
 Then, slyly nibbling, prudish from it flies. 
 Till with a bouncing start she bites the truthless prize. 
 
 Ah ! when the younker gives the fatal twitch ; 
 
 Struck with amaze she feels the hook ypright 
 Deep in her gills, and, plonging where the brech 
 
 Shaddows the poole, she runs in dread aff"right ; 
 
 In vain the deepest rocke her late delight, 
 In vain the sedgy nook for help she tries ; 
 
 The laughing elf now curbs, now aids her flight. 
 The more entangled still the more she flies. 
 And soon amid the grass the panting captive lies. 
 
 Where now, oh ! pity, where that sprightly play, 
 That wanton bounding, and exulting joy, 
 
 That lately welcom'd the retouring ray. 
 
 When by the riv'lets banks, with bushes coy, 
 April walked forth — ah ! never more to toy 
 
 In purling streams, she pants, she gasps, and dies. 
 
 J020. Mickt.e's Syr Martyn.
 
 ON ANOLINO. 
 
 ANGLING. 
 
 To you who love the lonely shade. 
 
 Where murm'ring waters gently flow ; 
 To you who love the silent shade. 
 By osiers and by alders made, 
 
 When softly summer breezes blow ; 
 Or should you line the river's tide. 
 Or should you line the rush-fring'd side 
 Of sedgy pool, where willows wave. 
 And weeping birch their branches lave 
 In the still water, where is seen 
 Reflected bright, each vivid green ; 
 If you can love such scenes as these, 
 A life of calm sequestered ease. 
 And sport devoid of care and guile. 
 Oh, live with me the angler's life. 
 And, from the rules I now impart. 
 With practice, learn the angler's art. 
 
 Dress not in colours bright or gay. 
 Nor be in gaudy raiments seen. 
 But let your garments still betray, 
 A modest drab or sober gray. 
 
 Or darker brown, or Lincoln green : 
 And when you seek the river side 
 Let not your shadow touch the tide. 
 Lest the scared fishes shun the bait, 
 And you in vain expectance wait. 
 
 259
 
 260 SONGS; ETC. 
 
 When, toO; the sun its noontide beam. 
 Sheds fervid o'er the glittering stream. 
 
 In vain your line you throw ; 
 But when, on sunless days, the breeze 
 Blows softly through the rustling trees, 
 At morn, or eve, or through the night, 
 When Cynthia sheds her silver light. 
 
 Then to the river go ; 
 And drag the scaly victim bright. 
 
 From the deep wave below. 
 
 Of yew, or ash, or hazel wood. 
 
 Your pliant angle make. 
 Which upward tap'ring from the hand, 
 
 A true elastic bend shall take ; 
 And form'd of twisted silk, or hair. 
 Of polish green for waters clear. 
 For muddy streams a deeper shade. 
 And stronger let j^our line be made ; 
 And let your hooks be sharp and keen, 
 And keep your tackle neat and clean ; 
 And various implements provide ; 
 
 A ring to clear your line from weeds, 
 A leaden weight to sound the tide, 
 
 And panier too the angler needs, 
 And lines and hooks of various kinds, 
 According to the fish he finds.
 
 ON ANGLING. 261 
 
 In gardens and in marshy fields, 
 The lob-worms their slow length unfold. 
 Whilst glittering bright with burnish'd gold. 
 
 The brandling small the dunghill yields ; 
 These form the best of bait, though still 
 Of other various kinds are found ; 
 The caddis lives in every rill, 
 The beetle loves the sunny hill. 
 And black snail seeks a moister ground, 
 la carrion grubs and gentles breed, 
 Beneath the tree- rots ash-bobs feed ; 
 
 Whilst during all the summer-time. 
 O'er every water's seen to play, 
 
 Myriads of insects in their prime. 
 That glitter in the sunny ray. 
 In all their colours bright and gay, 
 'Till victims to the scaly foe. 
 That plunges from the lake below. 
 
 In rapid rivers near the sea. 
 
 The salmon loves to sport ; 
 The grazling, perch, and trout we see, 
 
 To gentler streams resort ; 
 In sluggish waters, deep and still, 
 Or near some weir, or by some mill. 
 
 The pike delights to hide ; 
 And in the gently-winding stream, 
 The gudgeon, roach, the chub, and bream. 
 
 And dace, and roach reside.
 
 2«2 
 
 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 In rivers deep, whose muddy bed. 
 With water-plouts is overspread. 
 
 The carp and barbel found ; 
 Whilst still alike iu stream or mere, 
 In muddy pools or waters clear. 
 
 The eel and tench abound. 
 To take the salmon in its pride. 
 The Welsh or Scottish rivers seek. 
 Where, with its dappled sides so sleek,^ 
 It swims the monarch of the tide. 
 Or, if the gray trout you would take, 
 Go seek the side of some lone lake. 
 Like Coniston or Windermere, 
 Or Derwent, M^ith its waters clear ; 
 Or up some mountain-side ascending. 
 Meet the hill-stream swift descending; 
 Bounding on through dingles drear, 
 O'erhung with hazel, birch, and heather. 
 With mingling ivy twined together. 
 
 Still passing rapid, deep, and clear. 
 There myriads of trout you'll find, 
 A small, but more delicious kind. 
 
 Such are my rules, and such my sport. 
 Which health and happiness still give. 
 
 When you no more the world shall court. 
 But 'mid retired enjoyments live. 
 
 London, 1820.
 
 ON ANGLING. 263 
 
 THE FISHERMAN; OR PERSIAN 
 PARTNERSHIP. 
 
 Who has not, if he's fond of whim, 
 
 Laugh'd at crook'd Thornback's doleful trim ? 
 
 Seiz'd by that grim surveyor ; 
 The fright, on bearing him away. 
 The terror, too, and sad dismay. 
 Of that old grave purveyor. 
 
 A fish-bone, as we know. 
 Was cause of all this woe, 
 Choked and convulsed, now black, now pale. 
 Lifeless he lay ; 
 But Q. S. stay, 
 I'll try to tell my tale. 
 
 Old Hassan to the finny race, 
 With net and line, had given chase. 
 In pools and weirs. 
 For forty years. 
 And near the Tigris dwelt ; 
 War waging 'gainst the scaly tribe, 
 And could each season well describe 
 Of Mongo fish, or smelt. 
 
 None better knew the gaudy fly, 
 The bait to tempt the lesser fry. 
 
 Or when they'd bite ; 
 When to go trolling on the banks, 
 Or when with net to thin their ranks, 
 
 His great delight.
 
 264 SONGS, KTC. 
 
 The Caliph's dish 
 With various fish 
 Hassan had long supplied, 
 Aud still with daily toil and care 
 Sought, for his taste, whate'er was rare. 
 With honest boast and pride. 
 
 It chanced that with well baited hook. 
 
 In a famed brook, 
 A splendid prize at setting sun he took. 
 Kejoiced the fisher drew it to the shore, 
 A finer fish he had not seen before ; 
 So with his load, blessing his lucky fate, 
 He posted homeward, for 'twas late. 
 And with a ponderous and repeated knock 
 Which echoed to the sonorous clock, 
 Assail'd the palace gate. 
 
 Sadi, the porter, in an instant came ; 
 
 Not like our servants here. 
 
 Who loitering at ease. 
 
 Where'er they please. 
 
 Turn to the summons a deaf ear. 
 
 Reckless of censure or of blame. 
 
 This watchful Cerberus, it seem'd. 
 For years, had always deem'd 
 That half the profits should be his by right. 
 Of whate'er came ;
 
 ON ANGLING. 2(i5 
 
 Fish, flesh, or fruits, 
 Choice plants, rare roots. 
 To him were all the same ; 
 His avarice stretching to the utmost height. 
 
 The Caliph view'd the fish with longing eyes, 
 '•' By AlJa," cried, " this is a precious prize ! 
 Let Hassan here be brought ;" 
 Who enter'd in a trice, 
 When Ali ask'd him, where the fish he caught ? 
 Demanding too the price. 
 
 " Light of the sun," said Hassan, " not one mark 
 rjl take, for sooner I'd be swaliow'd by a shark ; 
 
 I only crave a boon." 
 ".'Tis granted, Hassan ; name at once thy prayer; 
 And by our lioly prophet do I swear, 
 
 'Tis thine ere wanes the moon." 
 
 " Dread sir," said Hassan, as he prostrate lay, 
 " My labours then you amply will repay, 
 
 I heed not scars or gashes ; 
 Your royal mandate issue then with speed. 
 Which let your myrmidons as quickly heed. 
 
 And give — one hundred lashes .'" 
 " 'Tis an odd fancy, for a man so poor," 
 Said Ali, '' and that I have sworn, do much deplore." 
 
 Then call'd his mutes, 
 
 Two sooty brutes. 
 While Hassan /ijly bastinadoes bore.
 
 266 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Smarting with pain, and lacerated back, 
 
 " Hold, hold I" said Hassan, " no more stripes I lack, 
 
 I have a partner here — it is no jest. 
 
 For, by agreement, he must have the rest." — 
 
 " How now ?" said Ali, 
 Smiling gaily, [^plain." 
 
 " What mean you, Hassan ? pr'ythee, slave, ex- 
 " Sun of the East," said Hassan, with a grin, 
 " Your porter Sadi, sire, who let me in, 
 
 Bargain'd for half the gain, 
 And may it please your highness, 'tis but fair. 
 Since T have promis'd him the ample share 
 
 Of what obtain'd from you. 
 That he should have it ; and I've born the lash. 
 Rather than be rewarded with the cash, 
 
 That he might have his due." 
 
 The Caliph saw the trick, and laugh'd outright, 
 While Sadi, crouching, sicken'd with affright ; 
 Trembling and quaking. 
 Like an aspen shaking. 
 He pray'd the Caliph to remit the fine ; 
 
 " No, by great Allah ! 
 
 Lay on, Abdallah !" 
 "■ Great sire," said Sadi, "mercy is divine !" 
 
 In vain he preach 'd, 
 
 Implored, beseech 'd, 
 Ali commands ! — the slaves the vassal strip. 
 And without mercy ply again the whip.
 
 ON ANGLING 267 
 
 Accounts thus balanced, Hassan was departing, 
 
 Who had till now prlong'd his stay ; 
 When AH, from his cushion starting, 
 
 For the smart jest must pay. 
 " You have borne much," he said, " for justice sake. 
 Here, honest Hassan, (his bright jewel take." 
 So grateful Hassan stopp'd salaam to make, 
 Then chuckling went his way. 
 
 THE OYSTER. 
 
 With feelings strange and undefined 
 
 I gaze upon thy face. 
 Thou choice and fancy specimen 
 
 Of an ill-fated race ! 
 How calmly, yea, how meekly 
 
 Thou reclinest in thy shell. 
 But what thy woes and sufferings are, 
 
 Man may conjecture well ; 
 For thou hast life as well as he 
 
 Who heedlessly takes thine, 
 And if thou could'st but speak, would draw 
 
 Forth tears as hrmy as thy brine- 
 For thou wert torn from home and friends, 
 
 And every heartfelt wish. 
 Thou hapless, helpless, innocent — 
 
 Mute, persecuted fish. 
 Perhaps thou hadst been lately join'd 
 
 To some soft plump young bride. 
 Who oped her mouth with thee for food. 
 
 When flowed the flowing tide.
 
 2()H SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Perhaps thou hadst a family 
 
 From which thou hast been torn. 
 Who mourn the loss of thee, alas ! 
 
 That never will return ; 
 Perhaps, when dragg'd from out thy bed, 
 
 They clung unto thy shell. 
 Willing to share all danger, with 
 
 Their parent fond to dwell. 
 Perhaps just then they'd been chipp'd off. 
 
 To meet a watery grave. 
 Or seen their father shipped off. 
 
 And sold just like a slave. 
 
 Thou wert happy in thy native bed. 
 
 Where the blythesonie billows play. 
 Till the rutliless hsher stole thee from 
 
 Thy own dear home away ; 
 He laid thee in his cobble. 
 
 Then rowed thee to the land ; 
 Thou art sold, and wash'd, and open'd. 
 
 And placed in my right hand ; 
 E'en I, the friend of all thy race. 
 
 When I think on what thou art, — 
 When I ponder o'er the witching joys 
 
 Thy swallowing will impart. 
 Can delay thy fate no longer — 
 
 One look — it is my last ! 
 One gulp ! one more ! a silent pause — 
 
 One sigh ! and all is pass'd.
 
 ON ANGLING. 269 
 
 ON THE RHINE. 
 
 The Rhine, the Rhine, thou noble stream, 
 
 Where warlike deeds are told ; 
 Where on thy banks St. Goar once stood. 
 
 His mission to unfold.* 
 
 Thy waters pure from mountain top. 
 
 Come rushing down the vale ; 
 A pointed emblem of those feats, 
 
 Wrapp'd in thy wond'rous tale. 
 
 The peaceful angler treads the banks, 
 
 Where warriors oft hath led 
 Their armies ; and patriots bold 
 
 For freedom's cause hath bled. 
 
 With waves of cloiids — rich and glowing. 
 
 That hang upon thy breast. 
 Thou seem'st a spot to charm the sense, 
 
 Where angler might be blest. 
 
 In summer heats I've sought thy shades. 
 
 Where cooling breezes blow ; 
 Thy glorious landscapes, fresh and fair. 
 
 Make angler's bosoms glow. 
 
 Thy murmuring streams, pour'd o'er the rock,^ 
 
 Fall sweetly on the ear ; 
 And soothes the troubled mind to rest. 
 
 When sadd'ning thoughts appear. 
 
 • St. Goar was the first preacher of Chrigtianity to the 
 inhabitants in this part of Europe.
 
 270 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 Flow on, proud Rhine, and may thy streams 
 
 For ever sacred flow. 
 For those who tread their margins gay, 
 
 The " gentle" fly to throvr. 
 
 WRITTEN AT A CLUB OF BRITISH AN- 
 GLERS IN NORMANDY, IN 1841. 
 
 Come, fairest land, we ovi'e to thee 
 
 Our gratitude and thanks. 
 Thy splendid streams have yielded sport 
 
 And joys have cheer'd their banks. 
 
 The R'dle, and Toncques, and Colonne, 
 
 Sweet waters cold and clear. 
 Have each the anglers hopes sustain'd, 
 
 And crown'd the bygone year. 
 
 The scatter'd cots, and hamlets rude. 
 
 Which greet the angler's eye. 
 Have nooks of shelter often prov'd. 
 
 When storms were passing by. 
 
 At Contance, Avranche, and Malo, 
 
 Fair towns of note and trade, 
 We've brother craftsmen recognis'd, 
 
 And jolly comrades made.
 
 ON ANGLING. 271 
 
 When waiid'ring by thy purling streams. 
 
 We've met with kindly cheer j 
 In many a quiet vale have found 
 
 Assistance ever near. 
 
 Let no man say, with British pride, 
 
 " I'll only fish at home," 
 For surely here an angler may 
 
 In gleesome humour roam. 
 
 Thy maidens fair, " Old Normandy," 
 
 In cups of every kind,* 
 Beneath whose shade, though varied be, 
 
 There beams a glowing mind. 
 
 Thy orchards fair, and genial sky, 
 Thy mountains, vales, and riils ; 
 
 The tout-ensemble of thy face, 
 The heart with pleasure fills. 
 
 Again we give the mead of praise, 
 
 To streams so rich in sport ; 
 May anglers here long ply their art. 
 
 And give a good report. 
 
 * A member ot the Club had taken sketches of upwards 
 of two hundred different Cuts of Cups in Normandy.
 
 27'2 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 IRISH SONG. 
 
 It was oil the Liffy's highei' streams, 
 
 I first began to lish ; 
 My father's cot, it stood hard by. 
 
 Secured me every wish. 
 I lov'd to roam, I lov'd to scan 
 
 The face of nature fair ; 
 Her glance so rich, so fraught with love. 
 
 It banish'd every care. 
 
 When Spring her radiant smiles arise, 
 
 And pierce the running rills ; 
 And Summer dews, among the flowers, 
 
 I'heir nectar sweet instils ; 
 Then rod in hand, and joyous step, 
 
 I pace the river streams, 
 As long as day his course doth run. 
 
 And twilight's murky beams. 
 
 No pleasures ere engross me more, 
 
 No sounds delight my ear, 
 Compared with those murmurings 
 
 From waters pure and clear. 
 Let Dublin, then, send forth sons 
 
 To Liffy's warbling banks ; 
 Here's joys pour'd out in richest stoie. 
 
 For antirlers of all ranks. 
 
 "»' 
 
 Dublin, 1831.
 
 ON ANGMNG. §7^ 
 
 ANGLING. 
 Grown tir'd of the town and its noisy pursuit, 
 
 I sat off one morning in June ; 
 Resolv'd my dull spirits once more to recruit, 
 
 I at Richmond arrived about noon. 
 Stopp'd there, where the current the royal shore hems. 
 
 With a thousand gay objects in front ; 
 At the old Silver Cross, by the side of the Thames, 
 
 I hir'd me a fisherman's punt. 
 
 I circled the isle, for the day was serene, 
 
 All things seem'd my pleasures to court ; 
 So I anchored my boat off the meadows so green, 
 
 And prepar'd for a summer's day sport. 
 My tackle was charming, and plenty in store, 
 
 My fly-line in order, my rod to my wish ; 
 And clear of the bull-rushy sedge by the shore, 
 
 I began to look out for the fish. 
 
 Roach, dace, and brisk gudgeons, in numbers arise, 
 
 With the barbel that skulk by the mill ; 
 And Fortune, inclin'd to present me a prize, 
 
 Sent a salmon to cope with my skill. 
 The sun was now sunk the horizon below, 
 
 When old Time, that importunate friend, 
 Told me, in friendship, the way I'd to go. 
 
 So unwilling the sage to offend.
 
 274 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 I pack'd up my stores and made haste to the laud. 
 Bad Richmond farewell, that hill of delight ; 
 
 The fam'd London stage being next to my hand, 
 I leap'd in, and was home before night. 
 
 ANGLING IN MAY. 
 
 The grass is wet with shining dew. 
 
 Its crystal bells hang on each blade ; 
 While opening flowers and bursting bud. 
 
 Breathe incense on the balmy shade. 
 Come down, then, to the river's brink. 
 
 With rod, near to the spreading thorn ; 
 And pleasantly the day we'll spend. 
 
 By streams that pensive music mourn. 
 
 They lack all life that cannot feel, 
 
 The glow of joy within them thrill, 
 In summer morn, and vernal sky, 
 
 When call'd to tread the mountain rill. 
 O'er hill and dale, and wild and wood. 
 
 The streams of light are pouring free 
 O'er earth's gay scenes, — a rapture spread, 
 
 A type of angling purity. 
 
 Buxton, 183 L
 
 ON ANGLING. 275 
 
 DEATH AND THE ANGLER. 
 
 Thou that hast lov'd so long and well, 
 
 The vale's deep quiet streams. 
 Where the pure water-lillies dwell, 
 
 Shedding forth tender gleams ; 
 And o'er the pool the May-fly's wing 
 Glances in golden eves of Spring. 
 
 Oh ! lone and lovely haunts are thine 
 
 Soft, soft the river flows. 
 Wearing the shadow of thy line, 
 
 The gloom of alder-boughs ; 
 And in the midst a richer hue, 
 One gliding vein of Heaven's own blue ! 
 
 And there but lone sweet sounds are heard — 
 The whisper of the reed, \ 
 
 The plashing trout, the rustling bird. 
 The scythe upon the mead ; 
 
 Yet, through the murmuring osiers near, 
 
 There steals a step which mortals fear. 
 
 'Tis not the stag that comes to lave 
 
 At noon, his panting breast; 
 'Tis not the bittern, by the wave, 
 
 Seeking her sedgy nest ; 
 The air is hlld with summer's breath. 
 The young flowers laugh — yet look ! — 'tis death I
 
 276 SONGS, ETC. 
 
 But if, where silvery currents rove, 
 Thy heart, grown still and sage. 
 
 Hast learn'd to read the words of love 
 That shine o'er nature's page ; 
 
 Off holy thoughts thy guests have been 
 
 Under the shade of willows green. 
 
 Then, lover of the silent hour 
 
 By deep lone waters pass'd. 
 Thence hast thou drawn a faith — a power, 
 
 To cheer thee through the last ; 
 And, wont on brighter worlds to dwell, 
 May'st calmly bid thy streams farewell. 
 
 1827. Mrs. Hrmans.
 
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