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SONGS, ETC. |
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THE FISHERMAN'S MUSTER.
" Trust me, there is much 'vantage in it, sir, You do forget the noisy pother of mankind, And win communion with sweet nature's self, In plying our dear craft."—Old Play.
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 the fair maiden's
breast, Just ripples the water that else were at rest; The cloud, like a frown from that fair maid,scarce seen, Just shadows the surface that else were serene ; While 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 and pride, The sheep-bells are tinkling the brown hills beside, The trees are bedizen'd in livery of green, And the birds they have roosted aneath such fair screen. |
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