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SONGS, KTC. |
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SONG.
Anxious by the gliding stream, See the steady angler watch, Trying every wily scheme,
The heedless finny tribe to catch. Hush ! hush ! not a breath, I've a nibble—still as death ! Strike, strike—play it, play it, Sure it's a weed ; zounds ! 'tis a weed.
Now the drizzling rains desceud,
Then the sheltering trees we court; Still our watchful looks we bend, Rain and clouds insure our sport. Hush ! hush ! I've a bite, We shall have rare sport to-night; Play it. play it—strike, strike, How it tugs—'tis a pike.
He weakens, now we get it to the shore, He snaps our line—we are baulk'd once more ; Then home we go, the tale is told, That we have caught—caught what ? a cold. Oh, the joys—oh, the joys, The joys, the joys of angling, The joys, the joys of angling, The joys, the joys of angling. |
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