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, 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 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 : The feast board is spread in our old brother's hall, LINES. Bring th y rod to the peaceful rill, Should thy heart be oppress'd with love, Or tender friends deplore; The flowing and murm'ring streams i'll prove 1802. K. THE ANGLER'S GLEE. Right socially we live, and never disagree, Our hearts like our purses, are open, light, and free, 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, S. MAUNDER. UNCLE WILL TO UNCLE JOHN. (SCOTCH BALLAD, 1702.) When cauld winter is past, When the fields change their hue, 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; 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, 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, |