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Gentle stranger, have you seen,
An angler pass this way— A blue-ey'd lad, of graceful mein,
Attired in drab array ? A basket on his back he bore,
His boots gemm'd with dew, And on his head a cap he wore,
With fishing-rod—quite new.
Oft at the early peep of day,
He courts this sylvan scene, And winds his joy-inspir'ng way,
Sings sweetly o'er the green. Responsive echo swells his lay,
In loud resounding strains ; And wafts the dying harmony,
O'er all the neighbouring plains.
A sprightly youth this morn I've seen,
With rod and creel display'd ; And as he brush'd the dew-deck'd green,
He hail'd a beautious maid ; Swift as the fearful hind he Hew,
Or metor through the skies, And up yon glen—none need persue—
Bore off his lovely prize.