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ON ANGLING. -15
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.
Now take heed ; Play it, play it.
Pshaw, 'tis a weed. Zounds, 'tis a weed ! Still with patience, on shore, They clear the line, and try once more : And thus they toil from morn till night, But when they getó
A bite. O ! the joys of angling, O the joys of angling, Now the drizzling rains descend, Now the sheltering tree they court, Still their watchful looks they bend ; Rain and clouds ensure them sport. Hush ! huah !
There's a bite. We shall have rare sport to-night ; How it tugs ;
It's a pike.