14 THE THAMES ANGLER. 



Rang with the popping of self-shooting corks. 

 One, only one, amid the hive of men, 

 Could freely move — Buoxo Core ; he, 

 The famous Salamander of Cremorne. 



There, on the hot hill-side, lay Robinson, 



His vest apart, his collar folded back, 



Grass in his hair and worry in his head ; 



For, though he slept, no peaceful slumber soothed 



His wearied brain, through which for ever ran 



Sharp troublous dreams and visions of despair ; 



For, though his open mouth was full as dry 



As wig of limeburner, or Tupper's odes, 



He, in his visions, sat in Grange's shop, 



Around him mountains of ice-cream, while near 



Stood Rumsey Foster, pointing to a cask 



Of foaming Allsopp ; in the background, ranged 



Bin upon bin, long-necked and yellow-sealed, 



Were flasks of choicest claret " duty free :" 



But, ever a3 the dreamer stretched his arm 



To grasp or ice, or beer, or claret cool, 



The tempting viands faded from his sight, 



And in their place rose thirst-exciting stores — 



Bedevilled biscuits and anchovy paste, 



"Which on his poor parched palate but awoke 



A fiercer flame, so that, enraged, he shrieked, 



And shrieking waked, and waking saw his friends, 



Good Brown and Jones, who watched him in amaze. 



Then out spoke Jones, " "What is it, Robinson'^? 

 Just now as Brown and I strode up the hill, 

 Muttering each to the other of his thirst, 

 Of how the heat was not to be endured, 

 Of what we 'd give but for one creaming pint 

 Of bitter beer, sudden a voice rang out, 

 Crying, ' To drink ! to drink ! ' A pleasant smile 

 Streamed o'er the wrinkled face of honest Brown 

 As these words fell upon his ear, and straight 

 T\ e hastened hither whence the accents came, 

 And found thee sleeping. Prythee now arise, 

 Give us this drink, and cool our coppers hot." 



But Robinson declared that he had nought, 



That he himself was parched, that his tongue clave 



Unto his mouth for dryness ; and they all 



Sat down lamenting, weeping o'er their lot. 



W hen by them marching came Piscator Smith ; 



Lightly he laughed when they their state described, 



And drawing from his creel a leather flask, 



Big-bellied, swollen, holding near a quart, 



"Be this," he cried, "the prize to him who best] 



