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Haste to the streamlet ! see, the sun |
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Oh ! pleasant are the green banks of the Lea, |
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The Rud, a kind of roach, all ting'd with gold |
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By purling streams, in shady dell, |
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Let's fish and let's sing together, |
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Dark is the ever flowing stream, |
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Beneath the still waters is the Fen King, |
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At setting eve and rising morn, |
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To campes and courts let others rove, |
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The dark grey of gloamin', the lone leafy shaw, An angler's life has joys for me, |
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Let others crowd the giddy court, |
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When this old rod was new, |
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Some youthful gallant here perhaps will say, |
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Farewell to the maid of my heart, |
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Here's a bumper to rod and to spear! |
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Sure Whiting is no fasting Dish, |
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Come, launch the light canoe, |
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Bright flowers are sinking, |
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With rod and line in hand, |
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Me no pleasure shall enamour, |
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Tho' jest-loving wight has thought fit to divine, |
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Hail ! gentle goddess, blooming Spring, |
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By shady woods and purling streams, |
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What pleasures wait the angler's life, |
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Hark ! anglers of the north, |
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Some morning now with balm unwonted fraught |
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On Till's clear streams that runs so deep, |
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