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THE FISHERMAN'S MUSTER. 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 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 meadows 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 baits, and a book of choice flies, With hope as our messmate, with skill as our guide,

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 away!

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 with love,

Or tender friends deplore;

The flowing and murm'ring streams i'll prove
A cure for inward sore.

1802.

K.

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,

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When the fields change their hue,
And the gowan 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 rests in his rin.

When the river is clearing,

The snaw broo runs out,

An' the flickeim miges

Are temptin' the trout;
When the rosy-faced callan'
Is snedin his wan,
Ah! this is the time

That wi' worms in his han'"

He run aff frae the schull,

Wi' some thread and a preen, To that hole where he saw

Sic big baggies yestreen.

When the south-west 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;

Ye're flees mana whistle,

But fa' on the streamlet

Like down o' the thistle.

When ye've gi'en twa-three waps, An' a fine thumpin grilse

Has lap at ye twice,

And made flutter your pulse; When at last ye have heuk't him, An' he's aff 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 tyne his breath.

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