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ON ANGLING. 13
Thus we spend the time, not thinking Of the fish, but eating, drinking, Merry making, funning, joking, Hailing watermen, and smoking ; For a bite not even wishing, Enjoying everything but fishing, At length, alas, the brandy's out, The weeds used up, and no more stout !
The setting sun's last ravs beam Is lingering on the rippling stream, While on the pools the osiers dark, Cast dark their shadows from the bank. 'Tis time that we were all ashore, We never spent such a day before ; What have we caught, look in the well, Or ask the coachman can he tell ?
The scorching sun has ta'en, we fear, The tender skin off every ear ; And we can see that each man's nose Is budding like the damask rose ; But now for bed, of fish to dream To-morrow in another stream.
W. A. C. The Cra, June 28, 1846.