46 LONDON ANGLER'S BOOK, 



5. 



See the ground-baits coming down, 

 Now mind my litttle chickens, 

 There's two above from town, 

 We shall find some pretty pickings. 

 This bait you see's put loosely on, 

 This Angler is a stranger, 

 You may take the gentles one by one, 

 In him there is no danger. 



List, &c, 



6. 



This tackle new and rough, 

 Of coblers' wax the hook smells, 

 The shot too bright enough, 

 And a flopping float which us tells. 

 Despite his glaring rod and line, 

 He has no pow'r to harm us, 

 If tackle always did thus shine, 

 The baits would only charm us. 

 List, &c. 



7. 



Oh ! heavens, that other face, 

 That's he that kill'd your father, 

 See the Barbel going a-pace, 

 We're all in danger rather. 



