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THE ANGLER'S REVEILLE.
Old Winter is gone, and young Spring now comes trapping ;
Sweet flowers are springing wherever she treads, While the bee, hovering o'er them, keeps humming and sipping,
And birds sing her welcome in woodlands and meads The snaw-wreath no more on the hill-side is lying;
The leaf-buds are bursting, bright green, on each tree, Ho, anglers, arouse ye, the streams are worth trying,
Fit your rods and away to the fishing with me.
Haste away, haste away, for the south wind is blowing,
And rippling so gently the face of the stream, Which neither too full nor too fine yet is flowing,
Now clouded, now bright with a sun-shinny gleam. At the foot of the fall, where the bright trouts are leaping.
In the stream where the current is rapid and strong, Or just by the bank where the skeggers seem sleeping,
They throw your fly light, and you cannot throw wrong.
There's a joy in the chase, over hedge and ditch flying,
'Tis pleasing to bring down the grouse on the fell, The partridge to bag, through the low stubble trying,
The pheasant to shoot as he flies through the dell. But what are such joys to the pleasure of straying
By the side of a stream, a long line throwing free, The salmon and trout with a neat fly betraying ?—
Fit your rods, and away to the fishing with me.