2o8 ANGLERS' EVENINGS. 



Venator sair, sair for him grat, 

 And Corydon lang mournin' sat ; 

 The boatman said, " I pity that 



Puir drookit craw !" 

 But Peter cried, " Though I'm gey wat, 



ril fish awa'!" 



The "wormer " scarce could get a rise. 

 Though lang and lang he threw his flies, 

 At lang and length his spirit dies, 



Sits doon to mourn ; 

 Soon up again, and then he cries, 



I'll try the worm. 



The worms are out and baited right, 

 Out goes the line wi' all his might ; 

 And in a jififey what a sight ! 



A great one on. 

 He made one rush, soon ceas'd to fight, 



And's landed home. 



He was so pleas'd he had a race, 

 A trout like that deserves a taste ; 

 The flask is oot, the angler's grace, 



" Here's tae ye, man ! " 

 " Now, boys, be quick, nae time to waste, 



The fun's sae gran'." 



