SONG TO A SALMON.

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

Thou bonny fish from the far sea
Whose waves unwearied roll
In primitive immensity

Aye buffetting the pole !

From millions of thy silvery kind
In that wide waste that dwell

Thou only power and path didst find,
To reach this lonely dell.

That wond'rous region was thy own,
That home upon the deep-

To thee were all the secrets known
In that dark breast that sleep-

Thou, while thy form midst heave and toss
Had still the billows play been,

Perhaps knewest more than Captain Ross, Or yet than Captain Sabine.

Yea, Fish! now wise alone was't thou,
But happy-what's far better-

Ne'er thy fins to Barrow bow,

They feared not Crocker's letter—

But far and wide their strokes they plied
Smooth thro' the ocean smoother,
Nor drab-clad Gifford chilled their pride
Nor Leslie's buff and blue there.

And now, my Beauty! bold and well
Thy pilgrim-course hath been-

For thou, like Wordsworth's Peter Bell
Hast gazed on Aberdeen !

And all those sweetest banks between,

By Invercauld's broad tree,

The world of beauty hast thou seen

That sleeps upon the Dee.

There oft in silence clear and bright

Thou layest a shadow still,

In some green nook where with delight
Joined in the mountain rill,

There, mid the water's scarce-heard boom
Didst thou float, rise, and sink,

While o'er the breathing banks of broom The wild deer came to drink.

Vain sparry grot and verdant cave

The stranger to detain

For thou wast wearied of this wave
And loud voice of the main ;

And nought thy heart could satisfy
But those clear gravelly rills,
Where once a young and happy fry
Thou danced among the hills.

The river roaring down the rock,
The fierce and foaming linn,
Essayed to stay thee with the shock,
The dark and dizzy din—

With wilier malice nets and twist

To perfect thy undoing,

But all those dangers hast thou miss'd,
True to thy destin'd ruin!

Sure no inglorious death is thine!

Death said I ?

Thou'lt ne'er die,

But swim upon a Poet's line

Down to Eternity,—

While, on our board, we'll all allow,

O! odd Fish bright and sheen!
A prime Contributor art thou
TO BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.

ANGLING.

You see the ways the fisherman doth take
To catch the fish: what engines doth he make?
Behold! how he engageth all his wits;
Also his snares, lines, angles, hooks and nets:
Yet fish there be, that neither hook nor line,
Nor share, nor net, nor engine can make thine:
They must be gropped for, and be tickled too,

Or they will not be catch'd whate'er

you

do.

JOHN BUNYAN.

SONG.

It chanc'd that an Angler, who liv'd at Cheapside,
With new tackle and nice lively bait,

On a fishing excursion to Putney bridge hied,
And there in a punt, at the due time of tide,
Expectant and watchful, he sate.

That pastime is virtue, the proverb declares,
And our sportsmen gave practical proof;
For though he display'd all his craftiest suares,
Tho' his hooks were conceal'd, and his lines single
The curs'd fish still kept swimming aloof. [hairs.

At length he grew hungry, and weary, and wet,
For the punt was both leaky and cranky;
And though he with caution each tempting bait set,
Not a minnow, a roach, or an eel, could he get,

For they all seem'd to say, "No I thank 'ee".

A wag on the bridge, said, "No longer contend,
For you've dev'lish bad luck below, brother;
And the fault's in your rod, (for I speak as a friend)
Tho' 'tis certainly true, there's a worm at one end,
Fet a fool scars the fish, at the other.

HINTS TO NORTH COUNTRY ANGLERS

IN CHOOSING A WIFE.

(AN OLD BALLAD.)

Northumberland lads, who use the gads,
And female affiance must share;

If

you wish to wed, betroth to bed,
One called with caution and care.

Knight of the flee, give ear to me,
The country I've scann'd around;
So, from the mass, select a lass,

Where beauties and virtues abound,
The lasses of Tweed are daft indeed,
There garlands give such grace;
The lasses of Till, are sprightly still,
In figure, and fashion, and face.

The lasses of Bremish, look rather squamish,
Embellished with elegant ease;

The lasses of Ale, for plumage prevail,
These pomp and appendages please.

The lasses of Aln, obey fashion's call, when
A princess precribes a new dress;

The lasses of Reed, each hair-braids her head,

And apes a-la-mode to excess.

The lasses of Wansbeck, like dignified dames deck, And their address quite deboniar;

The lasses of Pont, though pronounced paramount, Can scarce with these comets compare.