Upon the Exchange, 'twixt twelve and one,
Meets many a neat entangler;
'Mongst inerchantmen, not one in ten,
But what's a cunning angler.
For, like the fishes in the brook,
Brother doth swallow brother;
There's a golden bait hangs at the hook,
And they fish for one another.
A shopkeeper, I next prefer,
He's a formal man in black, sir,
He throws his angle everywhere,
And cries, what is't ye lack, sir ?
Fine silks or stuffs, cravats or cuffs:
But if a courtier prove the entangler,
My citizen must look to it then,
Or the fish will catch the angler.
But if you'll trowl for a scrivener's soul,
Cast in a rich young gallant;
To take a courtier by the poll,
Throw in a golden talent.
But yet I fear, the draught will ne'er
Compound for half the charge 'on't;
But if you'll catch the devil at stretch,
You must bait him with a sergeant.
Thus I have made my angler's trade,
To stand above defiance;
For, like the mathematic art,
It runs through every science.
If, with my angling song, I can
To mirth and pleasure lead you;
I'll bait my hook with wit again,
And angle still to please you.
Oh! the days when we went an angling,
We the cup of pleasure sipp'd,
And never knew what 'twas to feel
Blue-devilish or hipp'd.
No rankling cares, nor sulky fits,
In ease our line did throw,
In the days when we went an angling,
'Twas then we used to roam about,
Not tied to time or place,
And fearlessly and skilfully
Hook trout, or pike, or dace ;
Might dwell on fishing exploits-
Praise our dodges to the skies,
And even now and then,
Isaac Walton criticise;
But dare we think of such things now?
And echo answers, No!
As we did when we went an angling,
A long time ago.
Ah! where, alas, are now
The angling evening coteries, When, free from all corroding cares, We quaff'd our glass at ease? Where now the jovial songster, With his well-remember'd tones, The fine-flavour'd London stout, Whisky-toddy-devill'd bones? Alas! no devill'd bones have we, No more our clouds we blow, As we did when we went an angling, A long time ago.
ON FISHING IN THE RIVER SAONE, IN FRANCE.
No fairer land can meet the eye,
Than skirts thy banks, O Saone ;
Nor groves so sweet, and gardens green,
Nor lovelier skies e'er shone.
Thy gorgeous shades ne'er seem to tire
The angler's graphic eye:
When streams gush out with sparkling foam,
And purples fires the sky.
Thy waters play, and flowers adorn
Thy banks so fair and green;
And birds of richest plumage rest,
In wooded copse unseen.
The trout regales in clearest streams,
And shows his golden hue;
The angler plies his art with zest,
Nor need his labour rue.
Thy upper streams, when near thy source,
No richer scene can show;
And e'en when traffic soils thy breast,
Thy streams with grandeur flow.
No angling pleasures can be found
More racy and more sweet,
Than on thy hallow'd banks to roam,
When wisdom guides the feet,
Come, anglers, come, for work prepare,
The scaly race demands our care;
The tears of morn in rain-drops fall,
Sweet tears of bliss, to anglers all.
Bring forth your tackle, bait, and hooks,
The watery world divinely looks!
Come, anglers, come, nor longer stay,
We must, we shall have sport to-day.
See yonder trout, how proudly shy-
But on the stream-king keep your eye;
He must be taken-hook'd ere long,
To raise the smile and laud the song ;
The fly lines plays-the fish bite well-
And who kills most, boys-time will tell ;
Yes, anglers, yes, for truth to say,
Our sport, sweet sport, is good to-day.
How runs the time? yet, what care we,
For care or time, while here we be?
Well caught! that jack prolongs our stay:
We cannot-must not get away.
Bravo! that greedy perch too cries.
We must have more, to feast our eyes;
Yes, anglers, yes, for fame to say,
Our sport, sweet sport, is good to-day.
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