A SONG.

(SUNG BY A PARTY OF ANGLERS ON THE BANKS OF THE RIBBLE, IN LANCASHIRE.) Here's a bumper to rod and to spear!

A bumper to challenge a song!

A bumper to those, who, where'er the rill flows,
Are spearing and angling along.
'Tis good to be steady and cool;
'Tis better to dare than to doubt ;

'Tis best to keep clear of the snobs in the rear,
And be always thrown in and thrown out.
Then hurrah for the rod and the spear!
Hurrah for the zest of my song!

Hurrah for all those, who, where'er the rill flows.
Are spearing and angling along.

Here's a cheer for the charms of the stream,
A cheer for a glorious burst,

And who would not cheer, when the bold throw

the spear,

For the fearless are always the first.

There are some ever in the.right place;
There are some who just fuddle and sot;
There are many who love every danger to fear,
And many, I swear, that do not!

Then hurrah for the rod, &c.

There's a joy when the fish makes his rush, There's a joy when the salmon first bleeds; There's a joy, though to-day has now glided away, For to-morrow shall double our deeds.

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 fasting 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.

AN OFFICER.

CANADIAN SONG, ON THE SPEARING

OF SALMON.

Come, launch the light canoe,

The breeze is fresh and strong;

The summer skies are blue,
And 'tis joy to float along;
Away o'er the waters,

The bright glancing waters,
The Salmon-stock'd waters,
As they dance in light and song.

When the great Creator spoke,
On the long unmeasured night,
The living day-spring broke,
And the waters own'd His might;
The voice of many waters,
Of glad rejoicing waters,
The salmon leaping waters,
First hailed the dawn of light.

When foaming billows glide
To earth's remotest bound ;

The rushing ocean tide
Rolls on the solemn sound ;

God's voice is in the waters;

The deep mysterious waters;

The fruitful angling waters, Still breathes its tones around. 1851.

THE ANGLER'S THOUGHTS ON THE

APPROACH OF WINTER.
Bright flowers are sinking,
Streamlets are shrinking,

Now the deep ravine seems cheerless and sear;
Light clouds are flying,

Cold winds are sighing,

The angler is thoughtful, for winter is near.

Blossoms are cherished,

Have withered and perished,

The streams which we smiled on, are chilly and Feelings of sadness,

O'ershadow our gladness,

[drear;

And make the mind thoughtful, for winter is near

Thus all that is fairest,

And sweetest and rarest,

Must shortly be severed, and call for a tear;
Then let each emotion,

Be warm with devotion,

Let anglers be thoughtful, for winter is near.
Bristol, 1815.

ANGLING.

With rod and line in hand,

Let's usher in the day;
The sport's exceeding grand,

Arise, make no delay!

Now the stream is just before us,

Away, come-come, away.

1810.

SONG.

Me no pleasure shall enamour,

Swimming in the Drunkard's bowl; Joys that ends in strife and clamour, And in sorrow drown the soul.

Sports of mighty Nimrod's chusing,
All your mischiefs I will shun;
Broken bones and grievous bruising,
Glorious scars by Hunters won.

Come, then harmless recreation,
Holding out the Angler's Reed;
Nurse of pleasing Contemplation,
By the stream thy wand'rings lead,

When I view the waters sliding
To their goal with restless pace,
Let me think how Time is gliding
In his more important race.

On the flow'ry border sitting,
I will dip my silken line;
And weak Fish alone outwitting,
Curse all other sly design.

Milky kine, around me grazing,
Woolly Flocks on distant hills,
Join their notes. with mine in praising,
Him whose hand all creatures fill.