BALLADE-THE FALSE AND THE TRUE 281

Fly to please thy varying mood,
Suiting sky and water,

Robed in colors many-hued,
Like a sultan's daughter!
Or, together blended, show

Like a young moon crescent,
Rising o'er the sunset glow,
Softly opalescent.

Ah, beware lest thou espy
The Castle-Connell bending!
Feel that strange, mysterious fly
With thy strength contending!
Taste it not, it means thee harm!
Tail it hath-O fear it!-
Link'd with yonder stalwart arm,
And the gaff is near it!

Oh, thy terror when his barb
Shall thy fears awaken,
And that fly in gaudy garb

Cannot be outshaken!

Rush, and leap, and dive! ah me!

Vain thy mad endeavor!

No more river, lake, or sea

Home of thine for ever.

-Cotswold Isys.

BALLADE OF THE FALSE AND THE TRUE

When virgin Spring puts on her bridal veil
To wed hot-blooded Summer, I am fain
To join their nuptial feast in woodland dale,

Whose rippling brooks no other feet profane;

And there, where trout to wondrous size attain, And some are caught and some, though pricked, go free, Far from the city's many-tongued refrain,

My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me.

And once I sang of Love, of knights in mail,
Of maidens with the eyes of sunny Spain,
Of pallid moon, of warbling nightingale,
The adolescence of an amorous swain.
Let others sing to Julia, Jennie, Jane,
Their puny passions making piteous plea;
True to maturer love I will remain;
My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me.

Erstwhile in song I praised stone mugs of ale,
The wit-inspiring sparkle of champagne,
The flowing bowl, the merry quip, the tale

Told round the board ere Bacchus bold was slain.

The kindred spirits, all in sportive vein,

With luring laughter held life's golden key.

Ah, yesterday! I know this morning's pain. My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me.

Companion, sweetheart, friend, why should I deign Thy virtue to expose, thy loyalty?

Wine, woman, song, what profiteth to gain?

My old fly rod has ne'er been false to me.

-Sam S. Stinson ("Silent Sam").

Permission of "The American Angler."

THE ANGLER'S TOAST 283

THE ANGLER'S TOAST

When men meet to drink to those they love most, Let anglers fill up their cups for a toast,

Touch lip to no glass

To proud dame or lass

Who from gentle sport will tempt you to stray;

But your cups clink,

Ye anglers, and drink

A health to the fish,

To the biggest fish,

The fish that got away!

You lured him by craft; he fought you at odds-
In fair fight or foul, he splintered your rods.
Barbed weapon of steel

You've oft made him feel;

But, valiant and strong, he won every fray.
Then fill to the brim

And drink deep to him

A toast to the fish,

To the biggest fish,

The fish that got away!

What others you've killed with cunning and skill
You've never caught him and never you will.
In brook, lake or sea

The monarch is he—

Ye anglers, stand up and due homage pay.

Let every glass ring,

A toast to the King!

Long life to the fish,

To the biggest fish,

The fish that got away!

-Norman Jeffries.

EEL-SPEARING BY TORCHLIGHT
(Anguilla)

The skies are dark; the moon is hid
Behind the dusky cloud of night;
A bank of drift-fog from the surge
Hangs heavy on the sea-shore height;
No hovering breeze uplifts its wing
Aside the musty gloom to fling.

But see! a star along the wave

Moves slow and devious, to and fro; Now like a blazing camp-fire flares,

Now, flickering, trembles faint and low.

Anon it steady grows and burns

As hither thro' the gloom it turns.

'Tis the eel-spearer's pitchy torch That like a lightship's lantern flings

Its ruddy, quivering bar of light,

As in the rigging high it swings. Nearer and nearer, thro' the dusk,

The smoky flambeau slow doth float,

And now the gnome-like fisherman
Shows dimly in his drifting boat.

SAINT PATRICK

Standing with trident spear uprais'd,
All shadowy on his task intent,
He shows like goblin of the mine
On some weird, fiendish orgie bent.
He pauses, for the shooting flame
Reveals the slippery prey below;
With sudden plunge he thrusts the spear,
Then draws it upward to the glow;
And see! the captives twist and coil,
Dark victims of his midnight toil.

-Isaac McLellan.

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 fished with bait and line, sir,

At every throw he had a bite,

Which tugged and shook his twine, sir.

In troubled streams he loved 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 learned matters, sir,
Why Irishmen still love to fish

Among troubled waters, sir.

285