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For he's leal and true, and his bonnet blue, He'll fish the rill sae bonnie O;

When o'er the dikes, and through the sike,
I flee to meet my Johnny O.

When cruddled in his fondling arms,
And pressed wi' lips sae bonnie O,
My yearning heart sae fou and fain,
Croons wi' its love for Johnny O.
Wi' guileless tongue sae fair and free,
I fear nae skaith of ony O,
When dandlin' on the honest knee
O' my fond angling Johnny O.

At Lammas tide I'll be his bride,
And care nae mair for ony O,
The happy wife to spend my life
With honest angling Johnny O.

ANGLING.

By silver streams and tuneful grove,
I'll give my angling steps to rove ;
To haunt the brink of trinkling rills,
The flow'ry vales or sloping hills.
Far, far, from all I fear or hate,
From splendid life's delusive state.
Splendour canker'd with distress,
Grandeur mix'd with littleness,

ANGLING.

The waters, the waters, how clearly they flow,
And how softly and balmy the summer winds blow;
There are joys in the chase where the red fox doth flee,
There are joys on the turf where the fleet coursers be,
But the waters, the waters of Avon for me.

The waters, the waters, their murmurs are sweet,
And their banks, their swift ripples, delighted I greet,
The hill and the dale with wild huntsmen agree,
With the archer the green sward, the sailor the sea,
But the waters, the waters for anglers and me.

The waters, the waters, o'ershadow'd with leaves,
And cool'd by the ev'ning, and fann'd by the breeze ;
Are my sun-set companions adown by the lea,
When the scenes of my childhood delighted I see,
And sing, Oh, the waters, the waters for me.

TO THE MAY FLY OF THE ANGLER.
Thou art a frail and lovely thing,

Engender'd by the sun ;

A moment only on the wing

And thy career is done.

Thou sportest in the ev'ning beam
An hour-an age to thee-

In gaiety above the stream,

Which soon thy grave must be.

Although thy life is like to thee,

An atom-art thou not

Far happier than thou e'er could'st be
If long life were thy lot?

For then deep pangs might wound thy breast,

And make thee wish for death;
But, as it is, thou'rt soon at rest,
Thou creature of a breath.

THE SLUICE HOUSE ON THE NEW RIVER.

Ye who with rod and line aspire to catch
Leviathans that swim within the stream
Of this fam'd River, now no longer new,

Yet stil so call'd, come hither to the Sluice-House,
Here largest gudgeons live, and fattest roach
Resort, and even barbel have been found,
Here, too, doth sometimes prey the rav'ning shark,
Of streams like this, that is to say, a jack.

If fortune aid ye, ye perchance shall find
Upon an average within one day,

At least a fish or two ; if ye do not,
This will I promise ye, that ye shall have
Most glorious nibbles; come, then, haste
And with ye bring large stock of baits and patience.

ye here,

THE MAY-FLY.

The sun of the eve was warm and bright
When the May-fly burst his shell,
And he wanton'd awhile in that fair light
O'er the river's gentle swell;

And the deepening tints of the crimson sky
Still gleam'd on the wings of the glad May-fly.

The colours of sunset pass'd away,

The crimson and yellow green,

And the evening-star's first twinkling ray
In the waveless stream was seen;
Till the deep repose of the stillest night
Was hushing about his giddy flight.

The noon of the night is nearly come-
There's a crescent in the sky ;—
The silence still hears the myriad hum
Of the insect revelry.

The hum has ceas'd-the quiet wave
Is now the sportive May-fly's grave.

Oh! thine was a blessed lot-to spring
In thy lustihood to air,

And sail about on untiring wing,

Through a world most rich and fair, To drop at once in thy watery bed,

Like a leaf that the willow branch has shed

And who shall say that his thread of years
Is a life more blest than thine!

Has his feverish dream of doubts and fears
Such joys as those which shine
In the constant pleasures of thy way,
Most happy child of the happy May?

For thou wert born when the earth was clad
With her robe of buds and flowers,
And didst float about with a soul as glad
As a bird in the sunny showers;

And the hour of thy death had a sweet repose,
Like a melody, sweetest at its close.

Nor too brief the date of thy cheerful race-
'Tis its use that measures time-

And the mighty Spirit that fills all space
With His life and His will sublime,
May see that the May-fly and the Man
Each flutter out the same small span.

And the fly that is born with the sinking sun,
To die ere the midnight hour.

May have deeper joy, ere his course be run,
Than man in his pride and power;

And the insects minutes be spared the fears

And the anxious doubts of our three-score years.

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