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The supper on the table smokes,
Round the oak board they take their seats ; Now din of knives, forks, plates—no jokes,
Right earnest Aldermanic feats-Chorus—Much good may't do each honest soul, Each true bred brother of Trout-Hall.
The supper o'er, well fill'd each guest,
Dame with her private flask appears; Hopes they are pleas'd—" She's done her best,"
They greet th' old worthy with three cheers : Again fill tankard, pipe, and bowl—
Joke, tale, and toast, and song go round ; Begone dull care, shouts every soul,
To thee this is forbidden ground. Chorus—Begone, thou never canst enthral The jolly anglers at Trout-Hall.
When atop the hoary western hill,
The ruddie sun appears to rest his chin,
When not a breeze disturbs the murmuring rill And mildlie warm the falling dews begin, The gamesome trout then shows her silvery skin,
As wantonly beneath the wave she glides, Watching the buzzing flies, that never blin,
Then, dropt with pearle and golde, displays her sides,
While she with frequent leape the ruffled streame divides s