ANGLING ON THE WANSBECK.

The heavens are bright, the morning gale
Wantons o'er the woodland vale,
Amidst the sweet sequester'd scene,
Save by the warbling birds unseen,
With angling step. and musing mind,
Along the rugged banks I wind,
Where sturdy oaks with willows throw,
Their shadows o'er the streams below.

The stream is swift, its waters clear
Betray the rocky bottom near;
Where shapeless stones, of various hue,
And gushing streams, deceive the view,
Where men may stand, and think they see,
Fantastic works of jewelry ;

Bright gems upon the golden strand,
Disposed in form by fairy hand.

Above my head, the vault is blue,
The sun has drunk the morning dew,
And oft I left the margin high,
To ramble in the forests nigh.
Confus'd and rude; yet sweet to me,
A wide and charming scenery,
In every shade of verdant light,
Extends itself beyond the sight.

Here king-like oaks stretch far their sway,
And here in satin vesture gay,

The courtier birchs stand in groups,
And here the lonely willow droops,
Sad emblem of some hapless fair,
Or struggling life consigned to care.

Her graceful bough here flings the rose,
And here the dark-green holly grows,
And distant beeches tall and fair,
Wave their hundred arms in air.
Here round the privet green and gay,
The eglentine has twin'd her way,
And at her mossy feet are set
The primrose and the violet.

The linnet's note, the blackbird's song,
That sound the tangled brakes among ;
The gurggling streams, the rustling breeze,
The warbling lark, the hum of bees;
All sounds and sights I heard and saw,
Deep sympethatic strains they draw;
And oft on fancy's wing I stray,
And throw the fly and catch the prey.

G

A DAY BY THE SIDE OF THE TYNE.

TUNE.-"Derry Down."

Come my lads, from your pillows spring, open your

eyes,

And look out the best of your rods and your flies:
Cast care far behind you-let sorrow go pine-
For we swear we'll be off to the Banks of the Tyne.

But, first, let the board be spread, ample and wide,
Nor there's no fun in fasting, whatever betide;
Let the eggs come in clusters, the coffee in streams,
And the ham, tongue, and fowl, fade away like your
dreams.

Now a "caulker," the finest, of rich mountain dews,
To add zest to our spirits and strength to our views;
Then away ! like true sons of the angle we'll shine,
With our rods, creels, and lines on the Banks of the
Tyne.

Where Newburn lies bright, in the rich morning time, With its age. sprinkled turret, all calm and sublime, We'll start like keen fishermen, up to the chase, Determin'd no fugitive beats us the race.

Then on will we ramble to Wylam's deep holes, Where the large heavy trout lie together in shoals, And we'll hook them, and creel them, and make the glades ring,

As with hearts, like our rods, all elastic, we'll sing.

Ha! here's Ovingham, famed, where the Great Be

wick lies,

Once so dext'rous at handling the bonny brown flies,
As he roav'd, in his youth, by the side of the streams
Which he afterwards hallow'd in glory's bright beans.

May his mem❜ry be bless'd where he lies by the side
Of his own rapid river, his glory and pride;
Few grac'd it as he did throughout the bright day,
And-so-fitting it is he should live in our lay.

We'll visit his streamlets, decorous in mood
To think that we stand where the Giant One stood;
But, how sacred soever the streamlet may be,
We'll still hook "the natives" with hearts full of glee.

Then Bywell's deep pools of some "thumpers" we'll drain,

While ev'ry new cast gives new mirth to the strain, And the salmon lie splendid and bright to the eye, As they take their last look of the stream and the sky.

Now, our creels being well fill'd, we will all form a truce,

For a true fisher never takes aught but for use; And we'll leave the bright denizens, happy and gay, Till we pay our next visit another grand day.

And we'll off to the "Matchem" where Trotter "hangs out,"

A rare hand and skilful at cooking a trout;
And with salmon, ham-collops and eggs, too, galore,
We'll eat, drink, and sing, as we've oft done before.

Then, when midnight draws nigh and the dial of fun Shows how truly and blyth our gay course we have

run,

We'll stand, hand in hand, with our glasses at bay, And we'll drink, 'To our next merry meeting, hurrah’ Newcastle, May 1, 1840.

W. G. T.

ANGLING.

What equals on earth the delight of the angler,
For whom does life's cup more enchanting flow;
To follow the stream through the forests and meadows
When brightly the beams of the morning first glow.

O! this is a pleasure that's worthy of Princes,

Such health in its wand'rings can ever be found ; When echoing caverns and forests surround us, More gaily the pledge of the goblet will sound.

The light of Diana illumines our dell,

The groves where in summer we often retreat; Nor is then the shy trout in his covert securest, The salmon, so bright, is laid at our feet.