THEN MOUNT THE TACKLE AND THE

REEL.

Our sport is with the salmon rod,
Fine gut, tough ravel strings,
A hook of the true " Kirkby bend,"
Dark-bodied with white wing;
Dark-bodied with white wing, my boys,
A yellow bob behind,

And deep red hackle, fastened round
With tinsel well entwined.

Then mount the tackle and the reel,

Is now the fisher's song,

For Bringham Dub and Carham Wheel
Hold many a salmon strong.

A south-west wind that steady blows,

A dark grey cloudy sky,

A ripple o'er the waters clear,

To lead away the fly;

To lead away the fly, my boys,

There, strike! the reel goes free,

With a new run fish, as fresh and strong

As ever left the sea.

Then mount, &c.

The yielding rod bends like a bow,
And lifts him from his hold,

With quivering pull, and bounding leap,
Or steady run so bold;

The steady run so bold, my boys,

As through the stream he flies,

Tells with what energy he fights
Before a salmon dies.

Then mount, &c.

Reel up, reel up! one sullen plunge,
He takes out line no more,

Head down the stream, then haul him in,
He gasps upon the shore;

He gasps upon the shore, my boys,
His weight an English stone,

As beautiful a thing in death
As eye e'er gazed upon.

Then mount, &c.

The sport is o'er, and home we go,
A bumper round we bear,

And drink "The face we never saw,
But may it prove as fair."

But may it prove as fair, my boys,

Each fisher drinks with glee,

And benisons to-morrow's sport,

That it may better be-Then mount, &c.

M. A. FOSTER.

THE FISHERMAN'S MUSTER.

"Trust me, there is much 'vantage in it, sir,
You do forget the noisy pother of mankind,
And win communion with sweet nature's self,
In plying our dear craft."-Old Play.

Haste, anglers, arise, from your pillows, arise,
The sun has set out in his chariot of skies,
And the hill must be mounted, the valley be past,
Ere our hooks shall be baited, our flies shall be cast,
Brother anglers, be stirring, and shake off night's
dream,

For the red trout is leaping in Avon-dale's stream.

The south wind, like sighs from the fair maiden's breast,

Just ripples the water that else were at rest;

The cloud, like a frown from that fair maid, scarce seen, Just shadows the surface that else were serene; While honey drops, type of the lovely girl's tear, Just stain the fair streamlet that else were so clear.

The meadows are deck'd in their garlands and pride, The sheep-bells are tinkling the brown hills beside, The trees are bedizen'd in livery of green,

And the birds they have roosted aneath such fair

screen.

Then bestir, brother anglers, for nature has bred
Her season from you from the deep river's bed.

Then with net and with basket, the badges we prize, With a can of fresh baits, a book of choice flies, With hope as our messmate, with skill as our guide, With good eye, steady hand, and long patience beside.

We'll away, we'll away, and the world's pride forget. Deeming that its best jewel we had in our net.

Away, to the fishermen's muster, away!

For the sun rideth on, and he brooks no delay;
Then ply the dun fly while his glare is on-
We can ply the dun wine when his glory is gone ;
The bowl knows no sweetener to glad the free heart,
As the triumphs we win at our innocent art.

The feast board is spread in our old brother's hall,
The feasters are met at that old brother's call;
And the old wine is opened, the old stories told,
And the old sport is toasted, which ne'er will be
old;

And hearts they leap gladly, and eyes cheerly gleam,
For the red trout is captured by Avondale stream.

Salisbury.

J. S.

LINES,

WITH A PRESENT OF ARTIFICIAL FLIES.

When sweet Spring, my friend, shall smiling

Pour her soft and pearly dew,

And shall fill each grove and valley
With her flowers of varied hue:

Then shall thou, again delighted,
To the swift brooks haste away ;
And, thy slender weapons playing,
Tempt the fearful finny prey.

Yet amid thy healthful pleasure,
Gentle pity shall be thine ;
Nor upon thy hook of torture

Bid the worm in anguish twine.

When the western breeze is blowing,
Fatal to the fishy race,

And the sun thy sports befriending,
Veils in dusky clouds his face:

Then take thou thy pliant angle,
Every rippling eddy try;

And adown the murmuring streamlets
Draw thy well-dissembled fly.