98 LONDON ANGLER'S BOOK, 



3. 



I'll go alone, I'll not be baulk'd, 

 He merrily off one Sunday walk'd, 

 He found the fish were on the rise, 

 And soon rigg'd out a brace of flies* 

 Wet, &c. 



4. 



Sam threw a fly so neat and clean, 

 To drop, 'twas scarcely to be seen, 

 'Most every throw he hook'd a fish, 

 Till he Had kill'd a handsome dish, 

 Wet, &c. 



5. 



The countrymen that passed that way,, 

 To have a look at Sam would say, 

 One among the rest lean'd o'er a gate, 

 And thus to Sam began to prate. 

 Wet, &c. 



6. 



You ne'er can hope for heaven's bliss, 

 This day warn't made for sport like this,. 

 From such vile deeds do pray refrain,. 

 Nor in this wickedness remain. 

 Wet, &c. 



