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THE OLD ANGLER.
My grandsire is an angler old,
Life's wheels move dull and slow, His cheeks are wan and wrinkled deep,
His hair as white as snow ; His eye is dimmed of all its fire,
His heart of all its glee, And nought does he the live-long day,
But moan most piteously.
They say he's in his dotage now,
But I remember well, When he to cousin Tom and me,
Would pleasant stories tell; And as we clambered up his knee
He'd lay his pipe away, And, by the hour, fish o'er again, ( Scenes of his early days.
One story—it was our youthful pride—
We begged he'd tell it still : How he with Rodger, side bv side,
Caught salmon in the rill ; The l«aps they made, the tugs they gave,
The springings up in air, The stirring scenes which mark'd their fall—
In language choice and rare.