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ON ANGLING. |
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SONG.
Me no pleasure shall enamour,
Swimming in the Drunkard's bowl ;
Joys that ends in strife and clamour, And in sorrow drown the soul.
Sports of mighty Nimrod's chusing, All your mischiefs I will shun ;
Broken bones and grievous bruising, Glorious scars by Hunters won.
Come, then harmless recreation, Holding out the Angler's Reed ;
Nurse of pleasing Contemplation, By the stream thy wand'rings lead,
When I view the waters slidinjr To their goal with restless pace,
Let me think how Time is gliding In his more important race.
On the flow'ry border sitting,
I will dip my silken line ; And weak Fish alone outwitting,
Curse all other sly design.
Milky kine, around me grazing, Woolly Flocks on distant hills,
Join their notes, with mine in praising Him whose hand all creatures fill. |
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