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ON ANGLING. 61 |
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SONG.
South.west blows the wind, and a lowering sky,
Proclaims it a right angler's morn ; 'Tis sun-rise ! the lark trills his notes upon high ;
And I hear too the hunter's shrill horn.
Hie away.
It is a signal for us to be at our sport,
Rods, lines, flies, and baits, quick prepare;
To woodlands the hunters—to streams we resort, Both alike bent their victims to snare.
This fine day.
O'er the waves' dimpling surface we see the flies play, Ne'er distrusting the dangers below ;
And mark how the flnny race leap at their prey, Pressaging of game a rare show.
My brave boys.
Bait your hooks, throw your line, watch your floats, and look keen, I've a trout—I've a roach—I've a dace— Such sporting as this is a cure for spleen, As sure as the burst of a chase.
Full of noise.
Now change tackle and baits for variety's sake,
The ledger I chuse—I the troll ; Lo ! a pike! sure a larger ne'er snared in a lake,
And a barbel I drag from his hole.
What a weight. |
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