SONG.

Of all the sports and pastimes,
Which happen in the year,

To angling there are none, sure,
That ever can compare.

Then to angle we will

For health and for diversion,

We rise by break of day;

go, will go,

&c.

While courtiers, in their down beds,

Sweat half their time away.

Then to angle we will go, &c.

And then unto the river,

In haste we do repair,

All day in sweet ainusement,
We breathe good wholesome air.
Then to angle we will

go, &c.

Through meadows, by a river,
From place to place we roam,
And, when that we are weary,
We then go jogging home.

Then to angle we will go, &c.

At night we take a bottle,

We prattle, laugh, and sing,

We drink a health unto our friends,

And so-God bless the Queen.

Then to angle we will go, &c.

THE COURT OF ALDERMEN AT FISH.

MONGERS' HALL.

Is that dace or perch? said Alderman Birch;
I take it for herring, said Alderman Perring.
This jack's very good, said Alderman Wood;
But its bones might a man slay, said Alderman
Ansley.

I'll butter what I get, said Alderman Heygate.
Give me some stew'd carp, said Alderman Thorp.
The roe's dry as pith, said Aldermen Smith.
Don't cut so far down, said Alderman Brown ;
But nearer the fin, said Aldermau Glyn.

I've finish'd i'faith man, said Alderman Waithman ; And I, too, i'fatkins, said Alderman Atkins

They've crimp'd this cod drolly, said Alderman Scholey :

'Tis bruised at the ridges, said Alderman Brydges. Was it caught in a drag? Nay-said Alderman

Magnay.

'Twas brought by two men, said Alderman Venables; Yes, in a box, said Alderman Cox.

They care not how fur 'tis, said Alderman Curtis.
From air kept, and from sun, said Alderman
Thompson;

Pack'd neatly in straw, said Alderman Shaw :
In ice got from Gunter, said Alderman Hunter.
This ketchup is sour, said Alderman Flower;
Then steep it in claret, said Alderman Garret.

LAMENT OF THE COCKNEY ANGLER

IN FRANCE.

I roam beneath a foreign sky,

That sky is cloudless, warm and clear,
And ev'ry thing is glad but I,—

But ha! my heart is far from here.

They bid me look on rippling streams,
And boundless vineyards stretching far,
But I rejoice not in such themes,

And longing turn to Temple Bar.
They bid me mark the mighty Rhone,
Which flows majestic to the sea;
But I feel depressed and lone,

And turn my thoughts, dear Thames, to thee.
They bid me mark the mountains high,

Which o'er the running waters bend,

I only heave a secret sigh—

To Ludgate Hill my wishes end.

They taunt me with our denser air,

And fogs so thick you scarce can see;
Then, yellow fog, I will declare,

Though, strange to say, I long for thee.
And everything in this bright clime,

But serves to turn my thoughts to thee;
Thou, London, of an earlier time,

P

Oh! when shall I return to thee?

MY GLENDALE FRIEND, WILL REEDY O!

TUNE,-"The Lea Rig."

O let my hat be e'er sae brown,
My coat be e'er sae seedy O;

My whole turn-out scarce worth a crown,
Like gent's well-bred, but needy 0;
Yet still while 1 have got

Enough to pay the shot

Of Boniface both gruff and greedy O,
I'll fill the sparkling cup,

And I'll drink it fairly up,

To my Glendale friend, Will Reedy O!

Away wi' carking care and gloom,
That make life's pathway weedy O;
A cheerful glass makes the flowers to bloom
And the lightsome hours fly speedy O;

Be

merry

but and wise,

Prize the minute as it flies,

And Sorrow never will heed ye 0:-
Then put the goblet round,

With a Fisher's Garland crown'd,
To my Glendale friend, Will Reedy O !

Three summers now ha'e fled sinsyne
We met where Glen runs speedy O ;
Where ye on Cheviot mutton dine,
Wi' Cheviot fleeces clead ye O;

1833,

Where ye wile wi' meikle skill
The braw trouties frae the Till,

To pleasure baith and to feed ye 0 ;—
Here's the lads of Cheviot side!

Here's of anglers all the pride,-
My Glendale friend, Will Reedy O!

STEPHEN OLIVER.

ANGLING.

As in successive course the seasons roll,
So circling pleasures recreate the soul;
When genial Spring a living warmth bestows,
And o'er the year her verdant mantle throws,
No swelling inundation hides the ground,
But crystal currents glide within their bounds:
The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,
Float in the sun, and skim along the lake ;
With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,
Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams,
Now let the fisherman his toils prepare,
And arm himself with every wat❜ry snare;
His hooks, his lines peruse, and careful eye,
Increase his tackle, and his rod re-tie.

GAY.