The owl-bird flies, the shade-scene falls,
And home, boys, home, the "night bell calls ;"
There, there to chaunt the festive strain,
And drink old Isaac o'er again.
Great Walton ! whose piscatory skill,
Shall long a place in memory fill,
Shall live for truth's glad tongue to say, "Success to angling night or day."
Now the finny brood united,
O'er the buoyant liquid sweep,
Or, lost in wanton sport delighted,
Plunge adown the azure deep,
Yielding to the wily plan
Of the jolly fisherman.
Softly sweet the breeze is blowing,
Wand'ring streamlets swell the flood;
While with health and pleasure glowing,
Jocund pastime yields us food;
Crowning gay the wily plan
Of the jolly fisherman.
THE MORNING EARLY.
TUNE-" Corn Riggs."
It's late, my lad, to tak' the gad,
All nature's now in motion;
The floods o' May ha'e swept away
The sawmon's fry to ocean;
In Dewshill, lang, the throstle's sang
He's been rehearsin' cheerly;
Our only line's " far aff an' fine,"
And tak' the mornin' airly.
Up through the glens, amang the stanes,
The burns wi' heat seem dryin' ;
Slaw, tired and still, by Little Mill,
Wi' worm the Shades'man's hiein;
Ahint the bush, that hauds the thrush,
He now can shelter rarely ;
Our only line's "far aff an' fine,"
And tak' the mornin' airly.
At Alwinton, the Washin's on,
And loud the lads are singin',
To see the sheep spang, soom and dreep,
The dale's wi' laughter's ringin';
Het, tired, an' dry, the thirsty kye
The fords are taking fairly,
Our only line's "far aff an' fine,"
And tak' the morning airly.
Yet, through the trees, there's still a breeze;
The pool the gale is curling;
Beneath the beam, the glitterin' stream
Is owre the pebbles purling;
We're no' the sort to lose our sport,
Because the stream rins clearly,
But thraw the line "far aff an' fine,"
An' tak' the mornin' airly.
The gleg e'ed trout we'll pick him out,
Amang the stanes fu' deftly,
Our flies shall fa', the verra snaw
Can come nae down sae saftly;
We'll 'tice them here, we'll 'tice them there,
What though they loup but sparely,
Wi' a cast o' line "far aff an' fine,"
All in the mornin' airly,
When floods come down, a callant loon
May catch them wi' a tether,
And sawmon roe be a' "the
For gowks in rainy weather;
But gie to me the light midge flie,
When streams are rinnin' clearly,
And a cast o' line "far aff an' fine,"
All in the mornin' airly.
Newcastle, July 1st, 1845.
Anxious by the gliding stream,
See the steady angler watch,
Trying every wily scheme,
The heedless finny tribe to catch.
Hush! hush! not a breath,
I've a nibble-still as death!
Strike, strike-play it, play it,
Sure it's a weed; zounds! 'tis a weed.
Now the drizzling rains descend,
Then the sheltering trees we court;
Still our watchful looks we bend,
Rain and clouds insure our sport.
Hush! hush! I've a bite,
We shall have rare sport to-night;
Play it, play it-strike, strike,
How it tugs 'tis a pike.
He weakens, now we get it to the shore,
He snaps our line-we are baulk'd once more;
Then home we go, the tale is told,
That we have caught-caught what? a cold.
Oh, the joys-oh, the joys,
The joys, the joys of angling,
The joys, the joys of angling,
The joys, the joys of angling.
As late by the Thames's verdant side,
With a solitary pensive air,
Fair Chloe search'd the silver tide,
With pleasing hope and patient care.
Forth as she cast the silken fly,
And musing stroll'd the bank along,
She thought no list'ning ear was nigh,
While thus she tun'd her moral song.
"The poor unhappy, thoughtless fair,
Like the mute race, are oft undone ;
These, with a gilded fly we snare,
With gilded flatt'ry those are won.
Careless, like them, they frolic round,
And sporting toss th' alluring bait ;
At length they feel the treach'rous wound,
And struggle to be free too late.
“But, ah ! fair fools, beneath this show Of gaudy colours, lurks a hook; Cautious the bearded mischief view,
And, ere you leap, be sure to look.” More she'd have sung-when, from the shade, Rush'd forth gay Damon, brisk and young ;
And whatsoe'er he did or said,
Poor Chloe quite forgot her song.
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