Of beast and bird,

Enough we've heard,

By crack as loud as thunder;

So now they dish

A monster Fish,

For those that bite at wonders.

The sullion wench

Did catch a Tench,
Fatter than Berkshire hogs, Sir,
Which, pretty soul,

Had made his hole

Snug shelt'd by some logs, Sir.

Sans water He

Had liv'd, d'ye see,

Beneath these roots of wood, Sir,

And there, alack!

Flat on his back,

Had lain since Noah's flood, Sir.

Now he's in stew,

For public gout,

And fed with lettuce-coss, Sir,

In hopes the town

Will gulp him down,

With good humbugging sauce, Sir.

NIM.

THE ANGLER AND HIS FLOAT.

Far away from the noise and deceptions of trade, Through the rude winding paths by simplicity made, I take me at morn, as the day star appears,

And the lark, from above, with his song sweetly cheers;

By the swift winding Lea, full of rapture I tread, On the gay painted carpets kind Nature has spread.

As my float down the current goes dancing along,
I muse with my pastime; and this is my song-
"That bright coloured object, I follow so free,
Reminds me of things once familiar to me;
So dances the frail one fond youth to invite,
Who forgetting the hook is the gudgeon to bite.

Like my float is false friendship, it flatters the eye,
Till the hook of deceit gives permission to lie;
Like a float is the law tribe, they tempt to persue,
And not like my bait inviting to ensnare,
Then every piscator this tale shall report,
An angler is gone to Elysium for sport."

ICHTUS.

THE ANGLER'S WAND.

How oft times with my rod in hand,
In wandering by the stream,
I've likne'd the angler's magic wand
To life's deceptive dream.

The sky, perchance, looks fair and bright,
The breeze curls on the brook,
The waters ting'd to please the sight,
Trout waiting for the hook.

We plunge and strive from spot to spot,
But not a fish will rise-

In wonderment at our ill-luck,
Turn up our wistful eyes.

In daily life the same we see,

When hope mounts on the wing; Our means to ends may not agree, And grief from labour spring.

Again, sometimes, the day is sour,
And darkened is the sky;

Fair sport seems not within our power,
Though artful be our flies.

But here, again, at fault we are,
Success attends our skill,

And fish in scores come wide and far,
Our fishing creel to fill.

In life's career the same we see,
When hope flags in the rear,
And dark's the shade of destiny
When our success is near.

A moral, too, your line may point,
When tangl'd is the hair;
Let patience with her oil annoint,
"Twill save you from despair.

The same in life when ills assail, Perplex'd with mischiefs rank, Patience and skill will seldom fail

To unloose the knotted hank.

ROBIN GREY.

Robin Grey, an Angler,

Liv'd by Eden water; And always took the rod,

When aught was the matter,

By sound calculation,

No error could betray, That with the rod and creel, Distress it flew away.

In olden times the Rod,

Its healing powers made known, Among the wand'ring tribes.

Laid under Heaven's frown; They look'd to it, and liv'd, What'er their ills might be ; It brought the healing balm, And banish'd misery.

Ills in a like degree,

The angler's rod, it soothes, The jaring and the sad,

It brightens and it smooths; And when his mind commun'd With nature's rich display ; This always cheer'd the heart Of honest Robin Grey.

His rod prov'd the emblem,

Of pleasure and delight ; He smil'd on it by day,

B

And dreamt of it by night;