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SONGs. ETC. |
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THE FISHERMAN'S MUSTER. Haste, anglers, arise, from your pillows arise ! The sun has set out in his chariot of skies, And the hill must be mounted, the valley be past, Ere our hooks shall be baited, our flies shall be cast ; Brother anglers, be stirring, and shake off night's
dream, For the red trout is leaping in Avon-dale's stream.
The south wind, like sighs from a fair maiden's breast. Just ripples the waters that else were at rest ; The cloud, like a froun from that fair maid, scarce
seen, Just shadows the surface that else were serene ; Whilst honey drops, type of the lovely girl's tear, Just stain the fair streamlet that else were so clear.
The meadows are deck'd in their garlands of pride, The sheep-bells are tinkling the brown hill beside, The trees are bedizened in livery of green, And the birds they have roosted aneath such fair
screen : Then bestir, brother anglers, for nature has bred Her season for you from the deep river's bed.
Then with net, and with basket, the badges we prize, With a can of fresh baits, and a book of choice flies, With hope as our messmate, with skill as our guide |
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