XLVI

THE ANGLER'S GRAVE

Sorrow, sorrow, bring it green!

True tears make the grass to grow ; And the grief of the good, I ween,

Is grateful to him that sleeps below. Strew sweet flowers, free of blightBlossoms gathered in the dew: Should they wither before night, Flowers and blossoms bring anew.

Sorrow, sorrow, speed away

To our angler's quiet mound,
With the old pilgrim, twilight grey,
Enter thou on the holy ground;
There he sleeps, whose heart was twined
With wild stream and wandering burn,
Wooer of the western wind!

Watcher of the April morn!

Sorrow at the poor man's hearth!
Sorrow in the halls of pride!
Honour waits at the grave of worth
And high and low stand side by side.

Brother angler! slumber on,

Haply thou shalt wave the wand, When the tide of time is gone,

In some far and happy land.

Angling Songs.

"Poems."

XLVII

THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,

Stiff from throwing the line,

To take nothing at last by my motions.

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish

To inveigle the fish,

To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream

Must be scarce in the stream,

And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention;
And although at my hook

With attention I look,

I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;
Have they taken advice,

Of the "Council of Nice,"

And rejected their "Diet of Worms" now?

In vain my live minnow I spin,

Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought,

I had better have bought

A good rope that was used to Jack-Ketching!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,

It is vain in this river to search then;

I may wait till it's night,

Without any bite,

And at roost-time have never a Perch, then!

No Roach can I meet with-no Bleak,
Save what in the air is so sharp now;
Not a Dace have I got,

And I fear it is not

Carpe diem, a day for the Carp now!

Oh there is not a one-pound prize
To be got in this fresh-water-lottery!
What then can I deem

Of so fishless a stream

But that 'tis-like St Mary's-ottery?

For an Eel I have learned how to try,
By a method of Walton's own showing—
But a fisherman feels

Little prospect of Eels,

In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles,
Till I'm weary of dipping and casting,
And hungry and faint-

Let the fancy just paint

What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting!