And the rain drizzles down very fast,

While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell— So, wet to the skin,

I'll e'en back to my inn,

Where at least I'm sure of a Bar-bell!

XLVIII

ANGLING

Go, take thine angle, and with practised line,
Light as the gossamer, the current sweep;
And if thou failest in the calm still deep,
In the rough eddy may the prize be thine.
Say thou'rt unlucky where the sunbeams shine;
Beneath the shadow, where the waters creep,
Perchance the monarch of the brook shall leap—
For fate is ever better than design.

Still persevere; the giddiest breeze that blows,
For thee may blow with fame and fortune rife;
Be prosperous-and what reck if it arose

Out of some pebble with the stream at strife;
Or that the light wind dallied with the boughs?
Thou art successful ;-such is human life.

Quoted in
"Hamilton's
Parodies."

XLIX

THE FISHER'S WELCOME

We twa ha' fished the Kale sae clear,
And streams o' mossy Reed;

We've tried the Wansbeck and the Wear,
The Teviot and the Tweed;
An' we will try them ance again,
When summer suns are fine;

An' we'll throw the flies thegither yet,
For the days o' auld lang syne.

'Tis mony years sin' first we sat
On Coquet's bonny braes,
An' mony a brother fisher's gane,
An' clad in his last claithes.
An' we maun follow wi' the lave,
Grim death he heucks us a';
But we'll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we're taen awa'.

For we are hale and hearty baith,

Tho' frosty are our pows,

We still can guide our fishing graith,

And climb the dykes and knowes;
We'll mount our creels and grip our gads,
An' throw a sweeping line,

An' we'll hae a splash amang the lads,
For the days o' auld lang syne.

Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,
He's green below the knee,

Sae don your plaid and tak' your gad,
An' gae awa' wi' me.

Come busk your flies, my auld compeer,
We're fidgen' a' fu' fain,

We've fished the Coquet mony a year,
And we'll fish her ance again.

An' hameward when we toddle back,
An' nicht begins to fa',

An' ilka chiel maun hae his crack,
We'll crack aboon them a'.

When jugs are toomed and coggens wet,
I'll lay my loof in thine;

We've shown we're gude at water yet,
An' we're little warse at wine.

We'll crack how many a creel we've filled, How many a line we've flung,

How many a ged and saumon killed,

In days when we were young. We'll gar the callants a' look blue,

An' sing anither tune;

They're boasting, aye, o' what they'll do, We'll tell them what we've dune.

F

L

From THE INVITATION

To Tom Hughes

Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor lads are reaping,
Busy every one.

Curates mind the parish,
Sweepers mind the court;
We'll away to Snowdon
For our ten days' sport;
Fish the August evening
Till the eve is past,

Whoop, like boys, at pounders

Fairly played and grassed.

When they cease to dimple,

Lunge, and swerve, and leap,
Then up over Siabod,

Choose our nest, and sleep.

Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Round the lion's head,

Find soft stones to leeward
And make up our bed.

Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the pipe of peace,
And, ere we be drowsy,
Give our boots a grease.
Homer's heroes did so,

Why not such as we?

What are sheets and servants?

Superfluity!