THE FISHING OUTFIT

But there's one suit I'd not trade you
Though it's shabby and it's thin,
For the garb your tailor made you:
That's the tattered,

Mud-bespattered

Suit that I go fishing in.

There's no king in silks and laces

And with jewels on his breast,
With whom I would alter places.
There's no man so richly dressed
Or so like a fashion panel

That, his luxuries to win,

I would swap my shirt of flannel
And the rusty,

Frayed and dusty

Suit that I go fishing in.

'Tis an outfit meant for pleasure;
It is freedom's raiment, too;
It's a garb that I shall treasure
Till my time of life is through.
Though perhaps it looks the saddest
Of all robes for mortal skin,
I am proudest and I'm gladdest
In that easy,

Old and greasy

Suit that I go fishing in.

261

-Edgar A. Guest.

From "Just Folks." Copyrighted by and permission from Reilly & Lee Co.

TO MY DEAR AND MOST WORTHY FRIEND,
MR. IZAAK WALTON

Whilst in this cold and blust`ring clime,
Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar,
We pass away the roughest time

Has been for many years before:

Whilst from the most tempest'ous nooks
The chillest blasts our peace invade,
And by great rains our smallest brooks
Are almost navigable made:

Whilst all the ills are so improv'd
Of this dead quarter of the year,

That even you, so much belov'd,

We would not now wish with us here:

In this estate, I say, it is

Some comfort to us to suppose,

That in a better clime than this

You, our dear friend, have more repose:

And some delight to me the while,
Though Nature now does weep in rain,
To think that I have seen her smile,
And haply may do so again.

If the all-ruling Power please
We live to see another May,
We'll recompense an age of these
Foul days in one fine fishing day:

IZAAK WALTON

We then shall have a day or two,
Perhaps a week, wherein to try
What the best master's hand can do
With the most deadly killing fly:

A day without too bright a beam,
A warm, but not a scorching sun,
A southern gale to curl the stream,
And, master, half our work is done.

There, whilst behind some bush we wait
The scaly people to betray,
We'll prove it just with treach'rous bait
To make the preying trout our prey:

And think ourselves in such an hour
Happier than those, though not so high,
Who, like leviathans, devour

Of meaner men the smaller fry.

This, my best friend, at my poor home
Shall be our pastime and our theme;
But then, should you not deign to come,
You make all this a flatt'ring dream.

263

-Charles Cotton.

TO MY DEAR BROTHER IZAAK WALTON

Erasmus in his learned colloquies

Has mixt some toys, that by varieties
He might entice all readers: for in him
Each child may wade, or tallest giant swim.

And such is this Discourse: there's none so low
Or highly learn'd, to whom hence may not flow
Pleasures and information; both which are
Taught us with so much art, that I might swear,
Safely, the choicest critic cannot tell

Whether your matchless judgment most excell
In angling or its praise: where commendation
First charms, then makes an art a recreation.
'Twas so to me: who saw the cheerful spring
Pictur'd in every meadow, heard birds sing
Sonnets in every grove, saw fishes play

In the cool crystal springs, like lambs in May;
And they may play, till anglers read this book;
But after, 'tis a wise fish 'scapes a hook.

THE LAST CAST

The Angler's Apology

-John Floud.

Just one cast more! how many a year
Beside how many a pool and stream,
Beneath the falling leaves and sere,

I've sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream!

Dreamed of the sport since April first,

Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,

Adown the pastoral valleys burst

Where Ettrick and the Teviot flow.

Dreamed of the singing showers that break,
And sting the lochs, or near or far,
And rouse the trout, and stir "the take,”
From Urigil to Lochinvar.

THE LAST CAST

Dreamed of the kind propitious sky

O'er Ari Innes brooding grey; The sea trout, rushing at the fly,

Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!

Brief are man's days at best; perchance
I waste my own, who have not seen
The castled palaces of France

Shine on the Loire in summer green.

And clear and fleet Eurotas still,

You tell me, laves his reedy shore,

And flows beneath his fabled hill

Where Dian drave the chase of yore.

And "like a horse unbroken" yet

The yellow stream, with rush and foam, 'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet, Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!

I may not see them, but I doubt

If seen I'd find them half so fair

As ripples of the rising trout

That feed beneath the elms of Yair.

Nay, Spring I'd meet by Tweed or Ail,
And Summer by Loch Assynt's deep,

And Autumn in that lovely vale

Where wedded Avons westward sweep.

265