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ON ANGLING. 215
Then bestir, brother anglers, for nature has bred Her season from you from the deep river's bed.
Then with net and with basket, the badges we prize, With a can of fresh baits, a book of choice flies, With hope as our messmate, with skill as our guide, With good eye, steady hand, and long patience beside. We'll away, we'll away, and the world's pride forget. Deeming that its best jewel we had in our net.
Away, to the fishermen's muster, away!
For the sun rideth on, and he brooks no delay ;
Then ply the dun fly while his glare is on —
We can ply the dun wine when his glory is gone ;
The bowl knows no sweetener to glad the free heart,
As the triumphs we win at our innocent art.
The feast board is spread in our old brother's hall, The feasters are met, at that old brother's call ; And the old wine is opened, the old stories told, And the old sport is toasted, which ne'er will be
old; And hearts they leap gladly, and eyes cheerly gleam, For the red trout is captured by Avondale stream.
Salisbury.
J. S. |
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