OLD MATTERS.

The day is clear, the wind is fair,
I very much incline,

As I'm a dab, to have a fish

Upon the Serpentine.

Here's Master Tait, he tries with bait

He cannot throw a line; While I know every artful dodge To fish the Serpentine.

I hate the sight of Mr Tait;
He is no friend of mine,
He used me once surprising ill,
Upon the Serpentine.

For in the tete, of Mr Tait,

There harbour'd a design

To hook my line, and break my rod,
Upon the Serpentine.

He threw in here, and threw in there,
And struck against my line;
Which cut-quite cut me to the heart,
Upon the Serpentine.

If such in future be my lot,

My rod I will resign,

With firm resolve will seal my fate,

All in the Serpentine.

F

SONG.

Come, fuddle, fuddle, drink about,
And let us merry be;

Our creel is full, we'll turn it out,

And then all hands shall see.

Fine trout, and barbel here are caught,

And eels to grace the lot ;

Then cheer up, boys, no ill there's fraught,
And push about the pot.

The racer's call'd from horse to horse,
And swiftly rides the race;
More simple joys lie in our course,
When we are hooking dace.

When horns and shouts the forest rend,
His pack the huntsman cheers;
Our sports are these, that freshly send,
The music of the spheres.

We roam about, where joys do smile,
With sweethearts and with wives;
From canker'd cares, our heart beguile,
In pleasures pass our lives.

BANKS OF THE TRENT, 1764.

H.

THE ANGLER.

Gentle stranger, have you seen,
An angler pass this way-
A blue-ey'd lad, of graceful mein,
Attired in drab array?

A basket on his back he bore,
His boots gemm'd with dew,
And on his head a cap he wore,
With fishing-rod-quite new.

Oft at the early peep of day,
He courts this sylvan scene,
And winds his joy-inspir'ng way,
Sings sweetly o'er the green.
Responsive echo swells his lay,
In loud resounding strains;
And wafts the dying harmony,
O'er all the neighbouring plains.

A sprightly youth this morn I've seen, With rod and creel display'd;

And as he brush'd the dew-deck'd green, He hail'd a beautious maid;

Swift as the fearful hind he flew,

Or metor through the skies,

And up yon glen-none need persue-
Bore off his lovely prize.

1830.

A WELCOME TO WINTER.

Young smiling Spring, all clad in green,
Is like a maid in May;

And Summer in July, all sheen,
Is like a lady gay;

Mild Autumn, like a matron chaste,
Brings plenty in September;
And like a pilgrim o'er the waste
Comes Winter in December.

Winter, though old and hoary,
I rejoice at thy approach!
Thou art rich in song

and story,

Mirth and glee thou sett'st a-broach ;
When thy wrinkled cheek is glowing,
And thy heart is warmed with ale,
No youngster's wit more flowing,-
None tells a merrier tale.

The hunter welcomes Winter back
More gladly than young Spring,
For cheerly then the merry pack
Make vale and forest ring;

Though Winter's wind may blight the flower,

And strip the oak-tree tall,

Though leafless Beauty's summer bower,

'Tis merry in the hall.

Then welcome, Winter, grey, and old,
And rugged though thou be!
Though frosty, kindly: blyth, though cold;
Though blustering, frank and free.

Of all the Seasons chief thou art,
And Lord of Christmas cheer:
'Tis Winter sees the Old depart,
And welcomes the New Year.

Dec. 1837.

STEPHEN OLIVER.

ANGLING.

On the banks of some peaceful stream,
If thou lovest a quite joy;

We bid thee forget the tedious dream,
The struggle of life for Fortune's beam,
Which the worldly-wise employ.
Then let the prey in covert rest,
And 'gain nestle in field and wood,
And change the scarlet for fisher's vest,
The stubble and chase for the flood.
For kiddly doth nature to Anglers appear,

Though Winter is gone, for the May-day is here.