When this old rod was new,
No treadmills stained the land;
No giant jails were built,

No Union workhouse planned;
The rich looked on the poor,
As brother staunch and true,
Nor robbed him of his right,
When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,
No fires illumed the sky,
To write in words of flame,
The poor man's misery.
Employment was his right,
His wages fair he drew-
Oppression was unknown,

When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,
No factory mushroom dared,
Wring wealth from blood and tears,
And hold that wealth unshared!

The toil-worn man had friends,

Nor mean, nor weak, nor few,

But nobles of the land,

When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,
The sons of toil could ply
The "gentle art" right cheerily,
And cast the treacherous fly;
But time hath wrought sad change.
A change the land shall rue—
No keeper marred the sport,
When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,
No British man might die

On British ground, 'mid British wealth,
Of want and misery.

No one-eyed laws were made,

The rich alone to view; They did not punish poverty, When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,

We loved the house of God,
And learned in all our griefs,

To kiss the chastening rod;
The church we sought with joy ;
Our pastors served us true—
No magistrates were they,
When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,
Our fathers held the creed,
That God will give to all,
According to their deed.
Now, this is all forgot,

Or honoured but by few ;
It was not so, I trow,
When this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new-
By heaven, 'twill not be long,

Ere time bring deep revenge,
For meanest humble wrong!
Her glory on the wane,

Old England now must rue The policy pursued,

Since this old rod was new.

When this old rod was new,
Nay, take it, sir, and give
The pittance I demand,

That my poor bairns may live.
It breaks my heart to part,
And tears mine eyes bedew-

I wish I had been born,

When this old rod was new.

PALMER HACKLE.

ANGLING.

Some youthful gallant here perhaps will say,
This is no pastime for a gentleman,

It were more fit at cards and dice to play,

To use both fence and dancing now and then, Or walk the streets in nice and strange array, Or with coy phrases court his mistris' fan; A poor delight, with toyl and painful watch, With losse of time a silly fish to catch.

Let them that list these pastimes then pursue,
And on their pleasing fancies feed their fill;
So I the fields and meadows green may view,
And by the rivers clear may walke at will,
Among the daisies and the violets blew,
Red hyacinth, and yellow daffodill,

Purple narcissus like the morning rayes,
Pale gandergras, and azure culverkayes.

I count it better pleasure to behold

The goodly compasse of the lofty skie, And in the midst thereof, like burning gold, The flaming chariot of the world's great eye; The watry clouds that in the ayre uprolled With sundry kinds of painted colours flie; And fair Aurora lifting up her head, All blushing rise from old Tithonous' bed.

I

The lofty woods, the forests wide and long,

Adorned with leaves and branches fresh and green, In whose cool bow'rs the birds with chanting song Do welcome with their quire the Summer's Queen.

All these, and many more, of his creation

That made the Heavens, the angler oft doth see; And takes therein no little delectation

To think how strange and wonderful they bee, Framing thereof an inward contemplation, To set his thoughts on other fancies free; And whilst he looks on these with joyful eye, His mind is wrapt above the starry skie. JOHN DENNY. 1616.

LINES.

Farewell to the maid of my heart,
Farewell to the cottage and stream;
From thy banks with a tear I depart,
Thy pleasures they fly as a dream.
By fancy I dwell on thy smile,

I dwell on thy smile and thy song;
Which often my hours did beguile,
As I angled the waters along.

Once more the fair scene let me view,

The cottage, the stream, and the grove ;
Dear valleys, for ever adieu,

Adieu to the lass of my love.

J. H.