"Beneath the blue waters whoever shall see The place so lofty and bright,

Of the Fen King so fierce, and his lady so free, It is certain through ages to come he shall be Renown'd for his goodness of sight".

TO AN ANGLER.

At setting eve, and rising morn,
With soul that e'er shall love thee;
I'll watch thy wanderings by the stream,
With all that can improve thee.
I'll visit oft the berkin bush,

Where first thou kindly told me
Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush
Whilst round those didst unfold me.

To all your haunts I will repair,
By streamlet, shade, or fountain,
Or where the summer day I'd share,
With thee upon yon mountain 1;

Or shall I tell to streams and rills
From thoughts unfeigned and tender,
By vows your mine-you've caught a heart-
A heart which ne'er can wander.

AN ANGLER'S LIFE FOR MEE.

To campes and courts let others rove,
In quest of ranke and fame,
To these repair who titles love,
To those who seek a name.

The merchant man in search of gaine,
May plow the pathless sea,
But roave who may, by rill I'll stay,
An angler's life for mee.

I'd rather rise at earlier dawne,

When summer wedds with springe,
And brush the dewe drops from the lawne,
While merry larkes doe sing,

Than snore in bedd, with aching heade,
Throwe wine and revelrie;

Such pleasures still pursue who will,
An angler's life for mee.

The strains which flowe in courtlie hall,
May please a courtlie eare;

But give mee still at evening's fall,

The linnet's pipe to heare;

See shepherds dancing with their maides,

Below the greene-woode tree;

While wildlie floates the throstle's notes

An angler's life for mee.

1701.

LINES

WRITTEN IN PENCIL, ON THE DOOR OF AN INN, IN A REMOTE DISTRICT OF WESTMORLAND.

The dark grey of gloamin',

The lone leafy shaw,

The loo of the cushat,

The scent of the haw;

The brae of the burnie,

All deck'd out with flowers,

1

Where two kindred anglers
Spent many sweet hours.

A flask of good whisky,
Sandwiches and ale,
A smiling good housewife,
When our fishing doth fail;
With plenty of joking,

And singing and fun,
Give zest to the sporting,
With rod and with gun.

Ye, lost to all pleasure

Whom nothing can move,
Ne'er to stir from your lairs,
Nor by streamlet to move;

Away with your sounds,
Away with your store.

Ye know not the pleasures
Of angling an hour.

THE ANGLER.

An angler's life has joys for me,

When blooming spring has clad the plain
Each sprey then sounds with jocund glee.
For spring bring pleasure in her train.
'Tis then the angler's truest joy,

To wander by the lonely stream;
Success repays his mild employ,

And pleasure sheds her brightest beam.
His finny prey he gladly views,

The glitt'ring dace, the spangled trout,
The greedy pope, with varying hues,
Together on the grass spread out.
But trolling for the tyrant pike,

He ever finds his greatest pride;
This eager fish he joys to strike,
The monarch of the freshen'd tide.

The angler envies no man's joys,

But his who gains the greatest sport; With peace he dwells far from the noise, And bustling grandeur of a court.

J. M. L.

LINES.

Let others crowd the giddy court,

Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that angling yields

Are dearer far to me.

S.

SONG.

TUNE. "When this old Coat was new."

When this old rod was new

(My Grandsire cut the bough,
And formed its tapering length;
Methinks, I see him now!)
Old England's noble peasantry
Were loyal firm and true;
And blythe were English hearts,
When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,

Our fathers liv'd like men ;
They wrought their toil with joy,
O'er all their native plain ;
And merrily foamed the ale,
Which each good wife could brew,

For all untaxed it ran,

When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,

Each farm was snug aud small;
Each "rood maintained its man,"
And Hope shone out for all!
Now, paupers crowd the soil,

Since farms grew large and few ;

They dared not use us so,

When this old rod was new.