THE ANGLER'S LIFE.

TUNE."The Banks of Indermay." When vernal airs perfume the fields, And pleasing views the landscape yields, The limpid stream, the scaly breed, Invite the angler's waving reed. The musing swain what pleasures scize! The talking brook, the sighing breeze, The active insect's buzzing wing, And birds that tuneful ditties sing.

At latest eve, at early dawn,

The angler quests the scented lawn,
And roams, to snare the fiuny brood,
The margin of the flow'ry flood.
Now at some osier wat❜ry root
The Chub beguiles, or painted Trout;
No cares nor noise his senses drown,
Ilis pastime, ease and silence crown.

Adieu, ye sports of noise and toil,
That crowds in senseless strife embroil;
The jockey's mirth, the huntsman's train,
Debauch of health, and waste of gain.
More mild delights my life employ,
The angler's unexpensive joy ;
Here I can sweeten fortune's frowns,

Nor

envy kings the bliss of crowns.

THE PLEASURES OF ANGLING.

TUNE. "All in the Downs."

All in the fragrant prime of day,

Ere Phoebus spreads around his beams, The early Angler takes his way

To verdant banks of crystal stream.

If health, content, and thoughtful musing charm,
What sport like Angling can our cares disarm ?
That ev'ry sense delight enjoys,

Zephyr with odours loads his wing;
Flora displays ten thousand dyes,
And varied notes the warblers sings.
If health, &c.

On the soft margin camly plac'd,
Pleas'd he beholds the finny brood
Through the transparent fluid haste,
Darting along in quest of food.
If health, &c.

The skilful Angler opes his store,

(Paste, Worms, or Flies his hook sustains,)

And quickly spreads the grassy shore
With shining spoils that crown his pains.
If health, &c.

If some fierce shower in floods descends,
A gloomy grove's thick shade is near;
Whose grateful unibrage safe defends
'Till more inviting skies sppear.
If health, &c.

There blissful thoughts his mind engage,
To crouded noisy scenes unknown;
Wak'd by some bard's instructive page,
Or calm reflections all his own.
If health, &c.

Thus whether groves or meads he roams,
Or by the stream his Angle tends;
Pleasure in sweet succession comes,
And the sweet rustic never ends.
If health, &c.

THE ANGLER'S SONG.

As things most lov'd exite our talk,

Some praise the hound, and some the hawk ; Whilst those who chuse less rustic sport,

Tennis, or some fair mistress court:

But these delights I neither wish,
Nor envy, while I freely fish.

Who hunt, in dangers often ride;

Who hawk, oft lure both far and wide;
Who game, shall frequent losses prove ;
While the fond wretch allur'd to love,
Is fetter'd in blind cupid's snare—
My Angle breeds me no such care.

No other pastimes (thus employ'd)
Yield us such freedom while enjoy'd ;
All recreations else, no less

Than mind and body both possess.

My hand, alone, my work can do:
So I can fish and study too.

I have not angling (rude) on seas,
Fresh streams my inclination please ;
Whose sweet calm course to thought I call,
And seek in life to copy all:

In bounds (like their's) I fain would keep,
Like them would (when I break them) weep.

And when the timerous trout I wait
To take, and he devours my bait;
How small, how poor a thing, I find,
Will captivate a greedy mind;

Who comes more welcome to my dish,
Than to my angle was my fish,

Content, as well, if nought I take,

As use, of what obtain'd, to make-
Christ thus was pleas'd, His fishers when
He happier fishers made of men.

Where (which no other sport can claim)
A man may fish and praise His name.

His first attendants chose on earth,
Blest fishers were, of meanest birth;
And fish, as sacred record show,
Was His last-tasted food below-

I therefore strive to follow those,
Whom, Him to follow, He hath chose.

THE FLY.

When artful flies the angler would prepare,
This task of all deserves his utmost skill;
Nor verse nor prose can ever teach him well
What masters only know, and practice tell.
Yet thus at large I venture to support,
Nature best follow'd best secures the sport.
Of flies the kinds, their seasons, and their breed,
Their shapes, their hues, with nice observance heed;
Which most the trout admires, and where obtain'd
Experience best will teach you, or some friend ;
For several kinds must ev'ry month supply,
So great's his passion for variety;

Nay, if new species on the streams you find,
Try, you'll acknowledge fortune amply kind.

MOSES BROWNE.

ENEMIES OF FISH.

A thousand foes the finny people chase ;
Nor are they safe from their own kindred race;
The Pike, fell tyrant of the liquid plain,
With rav'nous waste dovours his fellow train ;
Yet, howsoe'er with raging famine pin'd,
The Trench he spares, his salutary kind.
Hence too the Pearch, a like varacious brood,
Forbears to make this gen'rous race his food.