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ON ANGLING.
THE SALMON RUN.
Air,—" The Brave Old Oak:'
Oh ! away to the Tweed, To the beautiful Tweed,
My much-loved native stream,
Where the hsh from his hold., 'Neath some cataract bold;
Starts up like a quivering gleam.
To the Tweed, then, so pure, Where the wavelets can lure
The King of the waters to roam, As he shoots far and free, Through the boundless sea,
To the halls of his silvery home.
From his iron-bound keeD, Far down in the deep,
He holds on his sovereign swav— Or darts like a lance, Or the meteor's glance,
Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.
As he roves through the tide, Then his clear glitt'ring side
Is burnish'd with silver and gold ; And the sweep of his flight Seems a rainbow of light,
As again he sinks down iu his hold. Q |
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