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248 SONGS, ETC.
Come, anglers, come, for work prepare, The scaly race demands our care ; The tears of morn in rain-drops fall, Sweet tears of bliss, to anglers all. Bring forth your tackle, bait, and hooks, The watery world divinely looks ! Come, anglers, come, nor longer stay, We must, we shall have sport to-day.
See yonder trout, how proudly shy— But on the stream-king keep your eye ; He must be taken—hook'd ere long, To raise the smile and laud the song ; The Hy lines plays—the fish bite well— And who kills most, boys—time will tell ; Yes, anglers, yes, for truth to say, Our sport, sweet sport, is good to-day.
How runs the time ? yet, what care we, For care or time, while here we be ? Well caught! that jack prolongs our stay ; We cannot—must not get away. Bravo ! that greedy perch too cries. We must have more, to feast our eyes; Yes, anglers, yes, for fame to say, Our sport, sweet sport, is good to-day.