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When fair Aurora, rising early, shews |
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Glide gently, thus for ever glide, |
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You that tish for dace and roaches, |
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When vernal airs perfume the fields, |
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All in the fragrant prime of day, |
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As things most lov'd excite our talk, |
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When artful flies the angler would prepare, |
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A thousand foes the finny people chase, |
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You must not every worm promiscuous use, |
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In genial Spring, beneath the quiv'rin' shade, |
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Oh, while fishing lasts, enjoy it, |
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The smallest fry grow fish in time, |
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I in those flowery meads would be, |
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Hail! gentle stream, for ever dear, |
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Mark the angler's watchful eye, |
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A Crab there was, a dashing young blade, |
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Come, rouse, brother sportsmen. |
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One fine May-morn the wind was south, |
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Tom Trout, by native industry, was taught |
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Cocoa-nut naught, fish too dear, |
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By an angling stream, on a Midsummer's day, |
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The river runs muddy to-day, |
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