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No fond interrogative wish I breath to each watery god :
Mv new rod has caught a fine fish, But, ah ! who will catch my new rod.
There's a sultry cloud, that now doth shroud
The soft declining sun ; There a rippling stream, on which her beam
Shall fall, ere his course be run. Ere that clouud be past, or that sun shall set, We must seek that wave with our fly and net.
Nor is it not when the toil-worn men
Hie to their noontide meal That our flies should quest the water's breast,
Or we wind our fish-strained reel: But 'tis when the shades of evening rise, That the angler casts his curious flies.
Then we'lt quaff" this ale, and we'll tell a tale,
And then hie to the Avon's side ; And the ploughman's glee, adown the lea,
Is our signal to court the tide; Nay, though night may come ere we cease to toil, Go our patience well, we will win our spoil.