To you who love the lonely shade,
Where murm'ring waters gently flow;
Το you who love the silent shade,
By osiers and by alders made,
When softly summer breezes blow;
Or should you line the river's tide,
Or should you line the rush-fring'd side
Of sedgy pool, where willows wave,
And weeping birch their branches lave
In the still water, where is seen
Reflected bright, each vivid green ;
If you can love such scenes as these,
A life of calm sequestered ease,
And sport devoid of care and guile,
Oh, live with me the angler's life,
And, from the rules I now impart,
With practice, learn the angler's art.
Dress not in colours bright or gay,
Nor be in gaudy raiments seen,
But let your garments still betray,
A modest drab or sober gray,
Or darker brown, or Lincoln green :
And when you seek the river side
Let not your shadow touch the tide,
Lest the scared fishes shun the bait,
And you in vain expectance wait.
When, too, the sun its noontide beam, Sheds fervid o'er the glittering stream, In vain your line you throw ;
But when, on sunless days, the breeze
Blows softly through the rustling trees,
At morn, or eve, or through the night,
When Cynthia sheds her silver light,
Then to the river go;
And drag the scaly victim bright,
From the deep wave below.
Of yew, or ash, or hazel wood,
Your pliant angle make,
Which upward tap'ring from the hand,
A true elastic bend shall take;
And form'd of twisted silk, or hair.
Of polish green for waters clear,
For muddy streams a deeper shade,
And stronger let your line be made ;
And let your hooks be sharp and keen,
And keep your tackle neat and clean ;
And various implements provide ;
A ring to clear your line from weeds, A leaden weight to sound the tide,
And panier too the angler needs, And lines and hooks of various kinds, According to the fish he finds.
In gardens and in marshy fields,
The lob-worms their slow length unfold,
Whilst glittering bright with burnish'd gold,
The brandling small the dunghill yields;
These form the best of bait, though still
Of other various kinds are found;
The caddis lives in every rill,
The beetle loves the sunny hill,
And black snail seeks a moister ground,
In carrion grubs and gentles breed,
Beneath the tree-rots ash-bobs feed;
Whilst during all the summer-time,
O'er every water's seen to play,
Myriads of insects in their prime,
That glitter in the sunny ray,
In all their colours bright and gay,
"Till victims to the scaly foe,
That plunges from the lake below.
In rapid rivers near the sea,
The salmon loves to sport;
The grazling, perch, and trout we see,
To gentler streams resort;
In sluggish waters, deep and still,
Or near some weir, or by some mill,
The pike delights to hide;
And in the gently-winding stream,
The gudgeon, roach, the chub, and bream,
And dace, and roach reside.
In rivers deep, whose muddy bed,
With water-plouts is overspread,
The carp and barbel found:
Whilst still alike in strean or mere,
In muddy pools or waters clear,
The eel and tench abound,
To take the salmon in its pride,
The Welsh or Scottish rivers seek,
Where, with its dappled sides so sleek, It swims the monarch of the tide.
Or, if the gray trout you would take,
Go seek the side of some lone lake,
Like Coniston or Windermere,
Or Derwent, with its waters clear ;
Or up some mountain-side ascending,
Meet the hill-stream swift descending;
Bounding on through dingles drear,
O'erhung with hazel, birch, and heather,
With mingling ivy twined together.
Still passing rapid, deep, and clear,
There myriads of trout you'll find,
A small, but more delicious kind.
Such are my rules, and such my sport, Which health and happiness still give,
When you no more the world shall court,
But 'mid retired enjoyments live.
THE FISHERMAN; OR PERSIAN
Who has not, if he's fond of whim,
Laugh'd at crook'd Thornback's doleful trim?
Seiz'd by that grim surveyor;
The fright, on bearing him away,
The terror, too, and sad dismay,
Of that old grave purveyor.
A fish-bone, as we know,
Was cause of all this woe,
Choked and convulsed, now black, now pale,
Lifeless he lay ;
But Q. S. stay,
I'll try to tell my tale.
Old Hassan to the finny race,
With net and line, had given chase,
In pools and weirs,
For forty years,
And near the Tigris dwelt ;
War waging 'gainst the scaly tribe,
And could each season well describe
Of Mongo fish, or smelt.
None better knew the gaudy fly,
The bait to tempt the lesser fry,
Or when they'd bite;
When to go trolling on the banks,
Or when with net to thin their ranks,
His great delight.
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