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;

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 found,
So let the toast go round;
Come here's to all anglers true,
Fill your glasses, but ne'er get fou!

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.

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 Nene,

They get a sly peep both at him and his Queen,
And loud are their praises of her.

Of water-rat's fur in a mantle so warm,

With a coronet green on her head,

She oft walks abroad at the end of a storm,
And the fishes are pleased at the sight of her form,
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.