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The lark dried her wings in the breeze of the niornins, The blackbird and thrush welcomed in the new day ;
The sun's golden rays all the hills now adorning, Give life to the landscape so fresh and so gay.
One hour brought us up to the first*place of baiting.
New milk and old whisky made old folks look vounjj. And the young ones of fishing and fish fell a-prating ;
And filled all their baskets long ere they begun.
Another hour brought us close up to the river, Which rolled in brown splertdour besprinkI'd with foam,
When one and all cried out—"My eye did you ever ! What, now, would they think if they saw this at home?'
And soon the next hour flew away as we mounted The smooth hilly road, amongst briers and broom ;
No longer black sheep, carts, or donkeys we counted, But lay at our ease in the mountain's perfume.
And now we are fixing our rods and our tackles ;
Our books well provided with all kinds of flies— "Professors," "cow-doctors," "blue duns," and "red hackles"—
The wind in our backs and the sun in our eyes.
Then soon we found out that our sport would be ample, With eye and hand ready to hook and to huld ■
The very first throw we had two for a sample, As fine as fresh herrings, and yellow as gold.