On the green bank a truant school-boy stands ; And leads the mimick fly across her way; Askannce, with listly look and coy delay, -The hungrie trout the glitterannd treacher eyes, Semblant of life, with speckled wings so gay; Then, slyly nibbling, prudish from it flies, Till with a bouncing start she bites the truthless prize. Ah! when the younker gives the fatal twitch; The laughing elf now curbs, now aids her flight, Where now, oh! pity, where that sprightly play, That wanton bounding, and exulting joy, That lately welcom❜d the retouring ray, When by the riv'lets banks, with bushes coy, April walked forth-ah! never more to toy In purling streams, she pants, she gasps, and dies. MICKLE'S SYR MARTYN. 1620. ANGLING. To you who love the lonely shade, When softly summer breezes blow; Dress not in colours bright or gay, Or darker brown, or Lincoln green : And When, too, the sun its noontide beam, Sheds fervid o'er the glittering stream, In vain your line you throw; But when, on sunless days, the breeze And drag the scaly victim bright, Of yew, or ash, or hazel wood, Which upward tap'ring from the hand, A ring to clear your line from weeds, A leaden weight to sound the tide, And panier too the angler needs, And lines and hooks of various kinds, According to the fish he finds. In gardens and in marshy fields, The lob-worms their slow length unfold, Myriads of insects in their prime, In rapid rivers near the sea, The salmon loves to sport; The grazling, perch, and trout we see, Or near some weir, or by some mill, The gudgeon, roach, the chub, and bream, In rivers deep, whose muddy bed, The eel and tench abound. To take the salmon in its pride, The Welsh or Scottish rivers seek, Where, with its dappled sides so sleek, It swims the monarch of the tide. Or, if the gray trout you would take, Go seek the side of some lone lake, Like Coniston or Windermere, Or Derwent, with its waters clear ; Or up some mountain-side ascending, Meet the hill-stream swift descending; Bounding on through dingles drear, O'erhung with hazel, birch, and heather, With mingling ivy twined together. Still passing rapid, deep, and clear, There myriads of trout you'll find, A small, but more delicious kind. Such are my rules, and such my sport, Which health and happiness still give, When you no more the world shall court, But 'mid retired enjoyments live. London, 1820. |