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ON ANGLING. |
13 |
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TO THE RIVER NITH.
Hail, gentle stream ! for ever dear
Thy rudest murmurs to my ear!
Turn from thy banks, though far I rove,
The slave of poverty and love,
Ne'er shall thy bard, wher'ere he be,
Without a sigh remember thee !
For there my infant years began,
And there my happiest minutes ran ;
And there to love and friendship true,
The blossoms of affection grew.
Blyth on thy banks, thou sweeted stream,
That ever nurs'd a poet's dream !
(If youth could sanctify a crime,)
With hazel rod, and fraudful fly,
Ensnared thy unsuspecting fry ;
In pairs have dragg'd them from their den,
Till chas'd by lurking fishermen,
Away I've flown as fleet as wind,
My lagging followers far behind ;
And when the vain pursuit was o'er,
Returned successful as before.
John Mayne. |
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