THE BOTTOM FISHER. TUNE-" When we went a Gipsying."

In childhood's days, when summer came,
It was my earnest wish,

To leave each noisy boist'rous game,
To rove about and fish.

I sought each little pond and stream,
Where weeds and rushes grow,
And prickle backs prime fish did seem,
A long time ago.

For larger streams, and larger fish,
I soon began to pine;

Oh! then was granted to my wish
A rod, with winch and line.
In Hornsey village, near the church,
When gentle winds did blow,
I've taken chub and bright-eyed perch,

A long time ago.

As youth advanced, at early day

The rising sun I've seen,

And brush'd the morning dew away,

O'er fields of lively green.

My bounding heart from care was free,
My cheeks with health did glow,

My float went dancing down the Lea,
A long time ago.

1 came

of

age, procured a wife,

Kind Heaven gave a son;

I work'd, and led a jovial life

When business was done.

While sometimes I indulged my wish,
And to Putney Bridge did row,
With wife and little son to fish,

A long time ago.

The steamers multiplied so fast,
And multiplied our fears,
Our man and boat dismiss'd at last,
We left the Putney piers.

At Teddington our punt was moor'd,
Where roaring waters flow,

There barbel, roach, and dace we floor'd,

A long time ago.

Old Father Time has play'd his pranks,

My hair is silver grey,

Yet still along the verdant banks

Of streams I fondly stray. The gentle craft I still pursue,

While wandering to and fro, And angle, as I used to do,

A long time ago.

T. B.

GLEE.

'Tis life to young anglers in early spring time, In the spring time all so fair,

Through the meadows to go where primroses grow, A-breathing the mild air.

When the butterfly comes and the great bee hums,
Round the sallow bush gosling-clad ;

And a tweet, tweet, go the little birds sweet,
Then the heart of the angler is glad.

'Tis life to young anglers in high summer days,
In the summer days all so fine,

All Llythe to be laid in the green, green shade,
Or bask in the broad sunshine;

When the hawk sails high in the grey, grey sky,
With dark clouds thinly clad;

And the merry flies brisk on the warm well frisk, Then the heart of the angler is glad.

ANGLING.

Angling, and free, for pleasure born,
Dull, sentimental fools I scorn;
At random with the stream I flow,
And ply my art where'er go.
From stream to stream I bend my way,
Where I can fish, and sing, and play;
Short be my reign-and cast the die,
When I discard my rod and fly.
York.

K.

1787.

ON TAKING A SALMON.
O, bliss divine!

A salmon flound'ring at my line!
Sullen at first he sinks to ground,
Or rolls in circles round and round;
Till, more inflamed, he plounging, sweeps,
And from the shallows seeks the deeps;
Then bends the rod, the winch then sings,
And down the stream he headlong springs;
But, turn'd with fiercer rage, he boils,
And tries indignant all his wiles;
Yet vainly tries, his courage flown,
And all his mighty powers gone,
I wind him up with perfect ease,
Or here, or there, or where I please;
Till quite exhausted now he grows,
And now his silver sides he shows;
Nor one faint effort more he tries,
But near my foot a captive lies;
His tail I grasp with eager hand,
And swing, with joy, my prize on land.

MORAL.

Think, when thou seest the bait,

Whereon is thy delite,

That hidden hookes are hard at hand,
To have thee when thou bite.

ANGLING,

When the sun is shining low,
From our easy sport we go,
Our kettle full of fish ;

And, having thought, the golden day,
Through the meads we take our way,
In haste to dress our fish.

Whether it barbel be, or pike,
Or trout, or silver eel belike,
Or perch, or grazling free;

Or bream, or carp, or tench, or bleak,
Or gudgeons, that in fords we seek,
Or roach, or dace it be.

A cup well stirr'd with rosemary,
A health to Madge, too, pledged free,
A song of harmless love;

Sheets neatly kept in lavender
May, each day of the calender,

These simple blessings prove.

LINES.

If patience be a virtue, then
How happy are we fishermen ?

For all do know that those that fish

Have patience more than heart ean wish.