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ON ANGLING. 77 |
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While pleas'd the neighbouring gentry stood.
And view'd the cheerful scene, Or laid aside their rank to join,
The anglers on the green. 1836. |
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VERSES WRITTEN IN A COPY OF HOF-LAND'S "BRITISH ANGLER''
PRESENTED TO A FRIEND.
No more the Angler's silent trade I play ; aside my tackle laid ; My hooks are rusted ; of my flies Consuming moths have made a prize. At dewy morn—at evening grey, With rod in hand no more I stray By Teviot, Beament, Kale or Tweed, By Liddal, Yarrow, Jed, or Reed, ; By Glen or Coquet, Till or Tyne, 'Tis three years since I wet a line ! For fishing I am off the hooks ; I've also shelved my angling books ; Old Walton's page no more I con, Young Stephen's "occupations gone" ; Young Stephen once—now, well-a-day, He's/or/y two, and turning grey.
May 18, 1841. Stephen Oliver |
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