Then Brown climbed up a willow tree,
And left me in the lurch;

Says he, "As mine's a new fly rod,
Why, here I'll take my perch;
And tho' no nibble we should get,
For fate oft disappoints;

I'm sure we sha'nt a dinner want,
My rod has seven joints.
Oh, the angling, &c.

And there we fish'd from rise of sun
Until it ceased to shine;
Sometimes we both troll'd out a verse,
Sometimes troll'd out a line:

A grinning countryman came up,
Said he. "In vain you zeek
Vor vish in that here pond, good zur,
'Twar only dug last week.

Oh, the angling, &c.

"There beadt no vish!" the bumpkin cried,

"Except some water rats,

But since you comed, the pond may boast,

A pretty brace of flats :"

I'd ask those folks who jeer at us,

And seem of self so fond ;

How they would catch a dish of fish,

What was not in the pond?

Oh, the angling, &c.

THE FISHERMAN.

TROUT AND TROT.

Tom Trout, by native industry, was taught
The various art-how fishes may be caught;
To basket oft he'd pliant oziers turn,

Where they might entrance find—but no return.
But when he would a quick destruction make,
And from afar much larger booty take,
Through the quick stream he'd very shrewdly set,
From side to side, his strong capacious net.
And then his rustic crew, with mighty poles,
Compell'd the fish to quit their oozy holes ;
And then pursu'd them down the rolling flood,
Gasping for breath, and almost choak'd with mud.

Dick Trot, who liv❜d below-ne'er thought his beer
Was good except he had his water clear-

He goes to Trout, and thus begins his tale:

Ah! if you knew but how the people rail

;

They cannot boil, nor wash, nor brew, they say, With water, sometimes ink, and sometimes whey ; According as you meet with mud or clay.

Now is it not a dismal thing to think

How we Old Trots must live, and have no drink?
Therefore, my friend, some other method take
Of fishing, were it only for our sake.

Says Trout, I'm sorry it should be my lot,
Ever to disoblige my neighbour Trot ;

The fault's not mine, 'tis Fortune that thus tries one

You know, "what's one man's meat's another's poison.

Therefore, in patience rest, though I proceed; There's no ill nature in the case-but need. Though for your use this water may not serve, I'd rather you should choke than I should starve.

LINES FROM WILLIAM COWPER,

THE POET,

TO MRS. NEWTON.

Cocoa-nut naught,

Fish too dear,

None must be bought

For us that are here.

No lobster on earth,

That ever I saw,

To me would be worth
Sixpence a claw.

So, dear Madam, wait

Till fish can be got

At a reasonable rate,

Whether lobster or not.

'Till the French and the Dutch

Have quitted the seas,

And then send as much

And as often as you please.

BY AN ANGLING STREAM.

By an angling stream, on a Midsummer's eve, Where woodbines and jesʼmine their bows interweave; Fair Flora, I cry'd, to my arbour repair;

I must have a chaplet for sweet William's hair.

I must, &c.

She brought me the violet that grew on the hill,
The vale-dwelling, and gilded jonquil ;
But such languid odours how could I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lass that I love?

She brought me his faith, and his truth to display,
The undying myrtle, and ever green bay ;
But why these to me, who've his constancy known?
And Billy has laurels enough of his own.

And Billy, &c.

The next was a gift that I could not contemn,
For she brought me two rosets, that grew on the stem
Of the dear nuptial tie, they stood emblems confest ;
So I kiss'd them, and prest them quite close to my
breast.
So I kiss'd, &c.

She brought me a sun-flower; this fair-ones your

due;

For it once was a maiden, and love-sick for you;
O give it me quick; to my angler I'll run,
As true to his flame as this flower to the sun.

As true, &c.

ELEGY.

A WARM MAN FISHING.

TIME-Noon.

The river runs muddy to day

The hooks are baited with lobs; We'll take the fish home in a chai'But mark yonder float, sure it hobs! A fish is most certainly took,

I'll draw it with speed to the shore ; And when I've baited the hook,

I'll cast it, and wait for one more.

O, death to my hopes!-'twas a weed!
Ah! why did they plant their weeds there?
It is so provoking indeed!

But hope is the balm of all care.

I hold till my tir'd elbows ache;

I gaze till my eye-sight swims roundSome short relaxation to take,

I sticks my rod into the ground.

While I ponder on credit and cash,

And the joys of next settling day, The rod tumbles in with a splash!

And sails on the current away!

Distracted I stand on the bank,

To the puntman I bawl out my wọe➡

O, rescue my rod ere it sink,

Why move so confoundedly slow.