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If any so wise is, that angling despises, |
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He gazed with admiration unsurpassed, |
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Loe, in a little boat whene one doth stand, |
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Around cap-a-pie, with baskets, bags, and rods |
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Bring thy rod to the peaceful rill, |
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Right socially we live, and never disagree, |
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When cauld winter is past, |
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Push about the bottle, lads, |
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Broader rivers please us then, |
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But if the breathless chase o'er hill and dale, |
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Blow, zephyr, and whisper the maid, |
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It was on a summer's morning, |
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Away with dull care, and rigid frugality |
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Here's good luck to the gad, |
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Fill, boys, and drink, wine will banish sorrow |
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Then get good hair, so that it be not black, |
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The greedy pike lies basking cool, |
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The lassie by the streamlet side, |
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It was the charming month of May, |
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My grandsire is an angler old, |
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Swift stream, if e'er thy limpid flow, |
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The rising sun, with ruddy locks, |
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A brother of the angle must always be sped, |
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The noithern lights are flashing, |
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When I desire to muse alone, |
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Come, let us laugh, let us angle and sing, |
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I have climb'd by the mountain rills, |
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