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Here's a sigh for the anglers afar, A welcome to those that are here ;
A health to the whole, who, in spirit and soul, Are friends to the rod and the spear !
Then hurrah for the rod, &c.
ON A YOUNG LADY
OF THE NAME OF WHITING.
Sure Whiting is no fasti?ig Dish, Let priests say what they dare ;
I'd rather have my dainty Fish, Than all their Christmas fare.
So sweet, so innocent, so free,
From all that tends to strife ; O ! happy man ! whose lot shall be
To swim with her through life.
Whatever Bait, love e'er could make.
To catch my fish I'd try; I'd be a gentle for her sake,
Or artificial fly.
But Venus, goddess of the flood
Does all my pray'rs deny, And surely Mars cries, save your blood—
You've other fish to fry.