134 THE A u L D 



hilarating joys of the fishing holiday to 

 which the following invitation to his 

 friend Tom Hughes was a prelude : 



" Come away with me, Tom, 



Term and talk is done ; 

 My poor lads are reaping, 



Busy everyone. 

 Curates mind the parish, 



Sweepers mind the court, 

 We'll away to Snowdon 



For our ten days' sport. 

 Fish the August evening 



Till the eve is passed, 

 Whoop like boys at pounders, 



Fairly played and grassed. 

 When they cease to dimple, 



Lunge, and swerve and leap, 

 Then up our Siabod, 



Choose our nest and sleep. 

 Up a thousand feet, Tom, 



Round the Lion's head, 

 Find soft stones to leeward 



And make up our bed. 

 Eat our bread and bacon, 



Smoke the pipe of peace, 

 And, ere we be drowsy, 



Give our boots a grease. 



