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ON ANGLING. |
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And oft the flowing bowl went round.
And oft was fill'd anew. Until Aurora usher'd in
Her streaks of varied hue.
Then each unto his chamber went,
To sleep an hour away, Until the footman wak'd them up.
To fish the live-long day. |
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LINES.
No more the angler's silent trade I ply ; aside my tackle's laid ; My hooks are rusted ; of my flies Consuming moths have made a prize. At dewy morn or evening grey With rod in hand no more I stray By Teviot, Bowmout, Hail, or Tweed, By Liddel, Yarrow Foot, or Reid, By Glen or Coquet, Till or Tyne ;— 'Tis three years since I wet a line ! For fishing 1 am " off the hooks ;" I've also shelved my angling books ; Old Walton's page no more I con, Young Stephen's occupation's gone ! Young Stephen once,—now, well-a-day, He's forty-two, and turning grey. 18//* May, 1841. Stephen Or |
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