When wi' fair skilly fechin'
Ye've warsled him out,
A dainty three-pounder,
A bonnie sea trout,
Frae the brine freshly run,
An' jist fit for your creel,
Ah! then is the time,
Like a warm hearted chiel,
To keep mind o' a friend,
Wha will share in your glee,
When he joins you some Sabbath,
At kipper or tea.
WRITTEN ON THE BACK OF AN OLD COPY OF THE "COMPLETE ANGLER," 1802.
Push about the bottle, lads,
Round the circle let it pass;
Down with baskets, and you'r gads,
And quaff off your social glass.
When dull cares disturb the soul,
To the river banks repair;
Throw the fly, or minnow troll ;
This will keep you from despair.
BARBEL FISHING IN THE THAMES.
Broader rivers please us then,
Where the voice of watermen,
And bargemen eke, we often hear,
(As they laugh and joke,-or swear,)
Sounding long from the shore,
As they ply the dripping oar;
The river that we have in view,
Is Thames, from Windsor down to Kew.
How pleasant in a dog-day sun,
When all on land looks dry and dun,
To spend the day upon the river,
On whose banks the osiers quiver;
In a punt for barbel fishing,
(Or anything not worth the dishing,)
With a merry companie,
Not more than nine or less than three.
How quick the cheerful hours do pass,
How quickly circulates the glass!
Ere Phoebus half his course has run,
The Sherry's out, the Veal pie done ;
But still there's bread and cheese, and brandy,
And plenty of cold water handy;
And stout galore; cigars abound
The box at morn contained a pound.
Thus we spend the time, not thinking
Of the fish, but eating, drinking,
Merry making, funning, joking,
Hailing watermen, and smoking ;
For a bite not even wishing,
Enjoying everything but fishing,
At length, alas, the brandy's out,
The weeds used up, and no more stout!
The setting sun's last rays beam
Is lingering on the rippling stream,
While on the pools the osiers dark,
Cast dark their shadows from the bank.
'Tis time that we were all ashore,
We never spent such a day before ;
What have we caught, look in the well,
Or ask the coachman can he tell?
The scorching sun has ta'en, we fear,
The tender skin off every ear;
And we can see that each man's nose
Is budding like the damask rose;
But now for bed, of fish to dream
To-morrow in another stream.
THE HEALTHYNESS OF ANGLING.
But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale,
Exceed your strength, a sport of less fatigue,
Not less delightful the prolifiic_stream
Afford. The crystal rivelet that o'er
A stony channel rolls its rapid surge,
Swarms with the silver fry, Such through the bounds
Of pastoral Stafford runs the brawling Trent;
Such Eden, spring from Cumbria mountains, such
The Esk o'erhung with wood; and such the stream,
On whose Arcadian banks I first drew air;
Liddal till now, except in doric lays,
Tuned to her murmurs by her love—such swains,
Unknown in song; though not a purer stream,
Through woods more flowery, more romantic groves,
Rolls toward the Western main; hail sacred flood,
May still thy hospitable swains be blest
In rural innocence; thy mountains still
Teem with the fleecy race; thy tuneful woods
For ever flourish; and thy vales look gay
With planted meadows, and the golden grain!
Oft with thy blooming sons, when life was new,
Sportive and petulant, and charmed with toys,
In thy transparent eddies have I laved :
Oft traced with patient steps thy fairy banks,
With the well-imitated fly to hook
The eager trout, and with the slender line
And yielding rod solicit to the share
The struggling panting prey; while vernal clouds
And tepid gales obscured the ruffled pool,
And from the deeps called forth the wanton swarm, Formed on the Samian School, or those of Irid. There are who think these pastimes scarce humane; Yet in my mind, (and not relentless I)
His life is pure that wears no fouler stain.
Blow, Zephyr, and whisper the maid,
That I sigh at her cruel delay;
O, tell her I'm down in the glade,
Angling my moments away.
'Twas her beauty gave life to the stream,
And filled my heart with delight;
Her voice, like a fanciful dream
Her smile that gave pleasure to life.
O, let her not flee from my eye,
Or rob me of pleasure so fair;
The streamlet runs on with a sigh,
And the rod is thrown down in despair.
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