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To you, true fishers, now in town, |
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We are all just like brother and brother, |
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Let landsmen boast of pleasures. |
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Come, follow me, right down the lea, |
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No glory I covet, no riches I want, |
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In childhood's davs, when summer came, |
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'Tis life to young anglers in early spring time |
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Angling and free, for pleasure born, |
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O bliss divine ! a salmon flound'ring at my line |
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Think, when thou seest the bait, |
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When the sun is shining low, |
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When vernal airs perfume the fields, |
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What beauties does Flora disclose, |
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If thou lovest a quiet joy, |
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Ye fishermen of Scotland, |
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Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, |
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Sportive young River, we've rambled together. |
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Mr. Walton, it's harsh to say it, |
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Fishing weather's coming, lads, |
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And this, the bravest fellow, |
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Angling tends our bodies to exercise, |
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Thy wooded heights, fair Canche, I leave, |
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I've seen the smiling primrose flower |
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Vale of bliss ! what joy to wander, |
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The waters not too high, too thick, too clear |
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What though the hunter's horn be mute, |
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When worldly cares corrode the heart, |
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A hungry fish once chanc'd to spy, |
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