39 



ON COLOUR. 

 As I walked by the bank in the balmy Spring 



The Spring when the duns are out, 

 I marked a splash and a broadening ring, 

 And I hastened forward my fly to fling; 



For I knew 'twas a feeding trout 

 A feeding trout; but how to entice 



Him out of his native stream ? 

 Ah ! that's the question ! for once or twice 

 I've offered him flies which I thought as nice 

 In the trout's esteem, as vanilla ice 



In a lady's, or strawberry cream. 

 Without success, for he still would feed 



On the flies which came floating past ; 

 But of my pet lines not one would heed, 

 And it seemed as though it had been decreed 

 By some aqueous elf, that his shameful greed 

 Should be peacefully sated, from danger freed 



As long as the rise would last. 

 But at length, as the sun, at the dawn of day, 

 Bursts forth and chases the mists away, 

 Scorching the lips of the new-mown hay, 



If the clouds be not too dense ; 

 So flashed upon me that useful hint : 

 "Many's the shade in a color's glint," 

 A maxim straight from the coining mint, 



The mint of experience. 



Then come; let us glance at this lightsome thing 

 With its fairy body and gossamer wing, 



"Olive encircled with yellowish rings;" 



Enough ; there's the very shade. 

 "Now craftily cast just a foot above 

 The nose of that specially wary cove 

 He was the King of Trout in the dove. 



He rises he's hooked here's a game of who wins 

 Even a trout's not above the pomps 



And lines of this wicked world. 

 In vain he gasps in unfeigned regret, 

 For he's safe in the folds of my landing net. 



