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LINES written in pencil in a copy of slater's angler. To the stream let us go, Where the hawthorns do blow, And inhale the sweet balm of the vale; With our rods tight and right, And our flies in good plight, Our spirits with joy we'll regale.
No pastimes and pleasures,
No wealth nor no treasures,
Can yield us so much real delight ;
As to throw the light fly,
And with quick skilful eye,
Hook the salmon—sportive and bright.
He leaps back and before,
Runs to deeps and to shore,
Then yields up his strength to our skill ;
We sieze hold of the boon,
Turn our steps toward the town,—
To muse on the sports of the rill.
How sweet is the breath of the briar,
How pleasant the sight of the glen !
With rod in hand I never tire,
Nor feel opprest like other men.