510 THE FROGS AND THE BULRUSH. 



Windyhaugh and Shiel Moor, high up the river ; but that all men 

 are not of this opinion is proved by the spirited ballad of " an old 

 fisher." 



" Let me begin at Brinkburn stream, 



Fast by the ruins gray, 

 And end at bonny Eelyhaugh 



Just wi' the ending day ; 

 My foremost flee the heckle red, 



My tried rod springing free ; 

 And creel to creel with any man 



In all the north countrie !" 



Through hanging woods and rich meadows the Coquet now de- 

 scends to the sea, past Weldon Bridge, through the delicious grounds 

 of Felton, and so down to Warkworth ; every inch of which is good 

 fishing water, while the scenery is " beautiful exceedingly." But as 

 this part is better known and more accessible, we do not particularize. 

 At the little hermitage scooped out of the living rock, made known 

 to all lovers of song by Dr. Percy's exquisite ballad of the " Hermit 

 of Warkworth," let us take leave of thee, gentle reader ! a fit place 

 of parting for those who have traversed the lovely stream before us, 

 from its fountains to its mouth. Above, are delightfully waving 

 woods ; below, the laburnum hangs down to lave her golden tresses 

 in the clear flowing river ; on the opposite bank, the noble remains 

 of Warkworth castle, with towers and battlements still standing 

 almost entire ; the sea, island-spotted, stretches away in the distance ; 

 a blue serene sky bends over all. Here then, gentle reader, let us 

 bid thee heartily adieu, riot without a hope that our rude sketches of 

 Coquet-dale will induce thee again to seek the pleasant banks of our 

 favourite stream. D. M. 



THE FROGS AND THE BULRUSH. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. 



CLOSE by the banks where Tagus steers, 



A frog of rather tender years, 



Praised the bulrushes growing there, 



How strong, and smooth, and green they were ! 



It chanced, just then, a wind there blew, 



That snapp'd the tallest rush in two ; 



The frog's wise mother hopp'd up to it, 



And call'd her son to come and view it ; 



" You see," she said, " how rash it is 



To judge from outward qualities, 



Without 'tis round and smooth enough, 



Within all emptiness and puff." 



If this sage frog had read some rhymes, 

 That pass for poems in our times, 

 I know not how she could express, 

 In better terms, their worthlessness. 



