But, thank my stars, all danger's past,
I'll make the cupboard rue my fast,
My first exploit shall be my last,
Of going out a fishing.

With rods and lines, &c.

BREAKING UP.

Break up the House,
No more of your mag;
Away to the grouse,
With a gun and a bag.

No more prose and plod

On each wearisome theme;

Take your line and your

rod,

And be off to the stream.

Fling blue books aside,

And throw up all reports, Mount your horses and ride; You're dismissed to your sports.

Go out in your yachts,

Having cut your debates ;

Visit famed foreign spots,

Or your country estates.

By inhaling fresh air

In your drive, ride or walk,
You the breath may repair
Which you've wasted in talk.
PUNCH, 1854.

SONG.

South-west blows the wind, and a lowering sky,
Proclaims it a right angler's morn ;

'Tis sun-rise! the lark trills his notes upon high ; And I hear too the hunter's shrill horn.

It is a signal for us to be at our sport,

Hie away.

Rods, lines, flies, and baits, quick prepare ;
To woodlands the hunters-to streams we resort,
Both alike bent their victims to snare.

This fine day.

O'er the waves' dimpling surface we see the flies play, Ne'er distrusting the dangers below;

And mark how the finny race leap at their prey,

Pressaging of game a rare show.

My brave boys.

Bait your hooks, throw your line, watch your floats, and look keen,

I've a trout-I've a roach-I've a daceSuch sporting as this is a cure for spleen,

As sure as the burst of a chase.

Full of noise.

Now change tackle and baits for variety's sake,
The ledger I chuse-I the troll;

Lo! a pike! sure a larger ne'er snared in a lake,
And a barbel I drag from his hole.

What a weight.

And now let's have done, for if longer I fish,

With our load we shall ne'er steer our course; At Trout-Hall, dame will soon make them smack in a dish,

And we'll smack, drink, and sing till we'er hoarse. What a treat.

THE COCKNEY ANGLER'S LAMENT
AFTER HIS DAY'S PUNT-FISHING.

I went down by "The Angler" to Ditton-
A coach very much to my liking,
"Tis convenient and pleasant to sit on,
And I found all the views very striking.

Three shillings I paid for my ride,

breakfast;

And two shillings more for my
But the money, thinks I, I dont mind,
If the fish on my hook I but take fast.

Then a punt was the next thing I wanted,
Six and sixpence a-day, too, the price;

A man to attend me was granted,

And I thought I should get on so nice.

But I found that this chap must be kept
With the best of good eating and drinking:

I confess I could almost have wept

To see how my money was shrinking.

For full half-a-crown's worth he took,
And then charged a shilling for baits,
Which were all I found on my
And such sort of sport, Sir, I hates.

hook

At length after hobbing and bobbing,
In the best of all beautiful holes,
With my heart and my pulse all throbbing,
Expecting some Turbot or Soles.

I caught what to me seemed a Sprat,
But the punt-man called it a Bleak;
And the devil a fish besides that

Chose to hang on my hook by his beak.

They talk'd about Barbel as big

As my leg, and a precious deal bigger,
And assured me on some other day
I should not cut so foolish a figure:

But the Bar-bell I found most annoying,
Was that which I rang for my bill;
As my time and my cash thus employing,
Did by no means agree with my will.

For when "The Angler" return'd,
And fairly ensconed in the City,
My expenses were not to be spurn'd,
Though on paper they look'd very pretty.

For at least thirty shillings I spent,

In the hope to bring up a good dish; But now I regret that I went,

And shall henceforth call Bleak my dear fish.

Farewell to the deep deeps of Ditton!
Farewell to the punt-man as deep!

To the coach that's so pleasant to sit on !—
The thoughts of ye all makes me weep!

J. M. LACEY.

ANGLING.

Or haply on some river's cooling bank
Patiently musing, all intent I stood,

To hook the scaly glutton. See ! down sinks
My cork, that faithful monitor; his weight
My taper angle bends; surpris'd, amaz'd,
He glitters in the sun, and struggling pants
For liberty, till in the

He breathes no more.

pure

air

Such are our pleasing cares, And sweet amusements; such each busy drudge Envious must wish, and all the wise enjoy.

SOMERVILE.