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Death Wake." It may have been suggested by Keats's 

 " Isabella and the Pot of Basil," but, horrible though the 

 fantasy be, there is a wild, ghastly, imaginative force in 

 many passages which shows a distinct flash of original 

 genius. But either the fire died out or the poet was at 

 no pains to keep it alive, for Stoddart never again rose 

 to the same height or anywhere near it. Perhaps the 

 contemptuous criticism of Christopher North " froze 

 the genial current of the soul." In the "Angler's 

 Companion " and " Angling Rambles " the songs are 

 delightfully interspersed with the prose, and they 

 have a freshness and spirit all their own. 



Mr. Andrew Lang, himself a poet and an angler, in 

 his " Letters to Dead Authors," has one addressed to 

 Izaak Walton, in which with graceful fancy he links 

 the names of these two among the immortals : 



"Father, if Master Stoddart, the great fisher of 

 the Tweedside, be with thee, greet him for me, and 

 thank him for those songs of his, and perchance he 

 will troll thee a catch of our dear River. 



Tweed ! winding and wild ! when the heart is unbound 

 They know not, they dream not, who linger around, 

 How the saddest will smile, and the wasted re-win 

 From thee the bliss withered within. 



Or perhaps thou wilt better love 



The lanesome Tala and the Lyne 



And Manor in its mountain rills, 

 An' Etterick, whose waters twine 



Wi' Yarrow frae the forest hills ; 

 An* Gala, too, and Teviot bright, 



An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed, 

 Their kindred valleys a' unite 



Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed! 



