FAREWELL FEAST OF ANGLING CLUB. 205 



IV. 



Go forth, ye aiiglers jovial ! 

 The ring of the trout we spy, 



And the south winds pour 



In a pleasant shower 

 The merry March-brown fly ; 



With vigorous wand 



The fisher hand 

 Among the dark pools ply. 



Swivel. The day's labours, Harry, have in nowise 

 lessened the vigour of thy song. But how is't thou 

 preferrest the fowling-piece now-a-days, and puttest 

 thy rod-arm out of practice ? 'Tis a leaning towards 

 revolt in thee and Master Timothy, which I, Nathan 

 Swiveltop, take upon me to reprehend. 



Hackle. They are twin sports, Doctor, those of the 

 stream and field the one vernal, the other autumnal. 

 Faith ! I love them both. 



Swivel. Not without a preference, master renegade. 

 Be honest, Harry, and detail to us thine angling 

 exploits during the last three months. 



Hackle. Ay ! that I will. Eiddled with my gun 

 three pike on the third of September ; marred a flying 

 salmon on the nineteenth of August ; and, only a 

 fortnight ago, pinked, off the coast of Ayrshire, an oily 

 porpoise ! 



Swivel. Bravo ! Harry. And now, Tim, 'tis thy 

 turn to give account of thyself or, failing to do so, 

 render a song instead. 



[GAFF sings.] 



