| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
ON ANGLING. |
||
|
ANGLING.
Drear night has dropped her sable reil,
As waking from a dream ; Cold Phoebus slowly sheds his rays
O'er yonder flowing stream. All nature hushed, no sound disturbs, No breeze o'er vale or hill ;
No waking bird,
No sound is heard,
Save this my babbling rill.
Come forth my rod, I quick perceive,
With ever watchful eyes, Amidst the still of yonder rill,
A bonnie troutliug rise. 'Tis May, I choose the sombre wing, T'will tempt his eager eye ;
By skill, and luck
Hurrah he's struck .'
He takes my well cast fly
He darts away ; my reel runs off,
Around, around it goes, 1 give him line, he carries off,
My pulse excited glows. What sport can equal joys like this ! My rod now bends in two,
Will such a hook,
Withstand the brook ?
Will this my line prove true r |
||