THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE.

Old Winter is gone, and young Spring now comes trapping;

Sweet flowers are springing wherever she treads,

While the bee, hovering o'er them, keeps humming and sipping,

And birds sing her welcome in woodlands and meads The snaw-wreath no more on the hill-side is lying; The leaf-buds are bursting, bright green, on each tree, Ho, anglers, arouse ye, the streams are worth trying, Fit your rods and away to the fishing with me.

Haste away, haste away, for the south wind is blowing, And rippling so gently the face of the stream, Which neither too full nor too fine yet is flowing,

Now clouded, now bright with a sun-shinny gleam. At the foot of the fall, where the bright trouts are leaping,

In the stream where the current is rapid and strong, Or just by the bank where the skeggers seem sleeping, They throw your fly light, and you cannot throw wrong.

There's a joy in the chase, over hedge and ditch flying, 'Tis pleasing to bring down the grouse on the fell, The partridge to bag, through the low stubble trying, The pheasant to shoot as he flies through the dell. But what are such joys to the pleasure of straying

By the side of a stream, a long line throwing free, The salmon and trout with a neat fly betraying ?

Fit your rods, and away to the fishing with me.

To awaken the milk-maid, the cock is yet crowing,She was out late last night, with young Hodge at

the fair-.

To be milked yet the cows in the loaning are lowing,
We'll be at our sports ere young Nelly be there.
The weather is prime, and the stream in good order;
Arouse ye, then, anglers! wherever you be,-
In Scotland, in Ireland, in Wales, on the Border,-
Fit your rods, and away to the fishing with me.
STEPHEN OLIVER. 1834

THE ANGLER'S PROGRESS.

When I was a mere school-boy,

Ere yet I'd learn'd my book,

I felt a wish for angling

In every little brook:

With ozier-rod, some thread for line,

A crooked pin for hook,

And thus equipp'd I angled
every little brook.

In

Of Pricklebacks and Minnows

Each day I caught a store,

With Stone Loaches and Miller's Thumbs,

Those brooks afford no more;

And thus the little Angler,

With crooked pin for hook,

Would shun each noisy wrangler,

To fish the murm'ring brook.

Then next I bought some farthing hooks,

And eke a horse-hair line,
A hazel rod with whalebone top,
My playmates to outshine;
With which I soon aspir'd

To angle with a float,

And when I could not fish from shore,
I angled from a boat.

Then Roach and Dace and Bleak I took,
And Gudgeons without end,

And now and then a Perch I'd hook,
Which made my rod to bend ;
And thus the little Angler,

Pleas'd with his line and hook,
Would shun each noisy wrangler,
To fish the murm'ring brook.

Bream, Chub, and Barbel next I sought,
Their various haunts I tried,

With scour'd worms, greaves, cheese and paste,

And various baits beside;

With hooks of Kirby bend, (well chose,)

And gut that's round and fine,

And so by gradations I rose,
To fish with running line.

A multiplying-winch I bought,
Wherewith my skill to try
And so expert myself I thought,
Few with me now could vie.

And thus the little Angler,

With rod and line and hook,
Would shun each noisy wrangler,
To fish the murm'ring brook.

My mind on Trolling now intent,
With live or dead snap hook,
And seldom to the river went,
But Pike or Jack I took :

Near banks of bulrush, sedge, and reed,
(A dark and windy day,)
And if the Pike were on the feed,
I rarely miss'd my prey.

If baits are fresh and proper size,
No matter what's the sort,
At Gudgeon, Roach, or Dace they'll rise ;
With all my turns I've sport.
So now a dext'rous Angler,
With rod and line and hook,
I shun each noisy wrangler,
To fish the murm'ring brook.

And now to cast a fly-line well
Became my chiefest wish,

I strove each sportsman to excel,
And cheat the nimble fish ;
Now Trout and Grayling I might kill,

(If gloomy was the day,)

And salmon, also, at my will,

Became an easier prey.

Now flies and palmers I would dress,
Aquatic insects too,

And all their various seasons guess;
Their uses well I know.
So now the perfect Angler,
With rod and line and hook,

I shun each noisy wrangler,

To fish the murm'ring brook.

SONGS OF THE CHASE.

THE TENCH OF THORNVILLE HOUSE

O! the marvellous

At Thornvile House,

We read of feats in plenty ;
Where with long bow,

They hit, I trow,

Full nineteen shots in twenty.

Their fame to fix,

'Midst other tricks,

In which they so delight, Sir;

These blabes, prey know,

The hatchet throw,

Till it is out of sight, Sir.