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ON ANGLING. |
213 |
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The yielding rod bends like a bow,
And lifts him from his hold, With quivering pull, and bounding leap,
Or steady run so bold ; The steady run so bold, my boys, As through the stream he flies, Tells with what energy he lights Before a salmon dies.
Then mount, &c.
Eeel up,' reel up ! one sullen plunge,
He takes out line no more, Head down the stream, then haul him in,
He gasps upon the'shore ; He'gasps upon the shore, my boys,
His weight an English stone, As beautiful a thing in death
As eye e'er gazed upon.
Then mount, &c.
The sport is o'er, and home we go,
A bumper round we bear, And drink " The face we never saw,
But may it prove as fair." But may it prove as fair, my boys,
Each fisher drinks with glee, And benisons to-morrow's sport,
That it may better be —Then mount, &c.
M. A. Fostkk. |
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