156 THE PRACTICAL FISHERMAN. 



Which suddenly I then impail 

 Upon my hooke, and fixing, tie his tail. 

 My hooke, well armed with wyre strong, 

 And commonly eight-inches long, 



I to my swivel fix 



Just to the brim retrieve the sinking roach 

 With gentle stirring, then he will approach 

 With eager haste to taste the loved prey ; 

 Then give him line, and let the reel so be 

 From knots and snarls exceeding free, 

 He'll quickly drown himself in his debauchery. 



This work is undoubtedly exceedingly rare. 



Another poem follows still, and deserves a word of commendation. Its 

 title is the "Angler's Eight Dialogues in Verse," by Scott, 1758, and 

 in the seventh dialogue, on trolling for pike, the following passage 

 occurs : 



The pike, my joy of all the scaly shoal, 



And of all fishing instruments the trowl. 



My bounding heart against my bosom beats 



Now while my tongue the glorious strife repeats. 



Oh ! when he feels my jerking hook, with power 



And rage he bounces from his weedy bower. 



He traverses the stream with strong career, 



With straightened string his maddened course to steer. 



He springs above the wave at length, o'ercome ; 



This evening shall he feast my cheerful home. 



This is certainly above the average of angling poetry, and as a con- 

 cluding specimen of still better poetry upon the subject of "Trolling" 

 I may be allowed to quote " Some Verses on Trolling,' by W. Watt, 1839, 

 which display real vigour and power. The verses are reported to be a 

 fragment. 



The pool is reached near to the farther shore, 

 Through an old weir, the rapid waters pour ; 

 But deeply inward, where the troller goes, 

 They're circled back and lie in calm repose. 

 Brood beds of rushes fringe the silent tide, 

 And leaves expansive float upon the side, 

 With here and there a goodly space between, 

 Where the bright bait may enter and be seen. 

 Stand back, my friends our first attempt be made 

 Here, where the wave is slumbering in the shade. 

 Behind these flags I'll hide me as I go, 

 Lest jack or pike refuse the bait I throw. 

 He lets the butt upon his side recline, 

 In his left hand detains some slackened line ; 

 Lowers the rod, and then with gentle sweep 

 Urges the tempting gudgeon to the deep. 

 The tempting gudgeon to the bottom flies, 

 And right and left the troller bids it rise ; 

 Curling and spinning, like a fish at play, 

 Its glittering form attracts the watchful prey. 

 Lo ! as the bait is near the surface led, 

 A powerful pike forsakes his weedy bed, 

 With sudden grasp obtains the yielding snare, 

 Then turns to pouch it in his watery lair. 

 And at last, 



Borne to the top, his jaws distained with blood, 

 Still floundering on he beats the foamy flood- 

 Like some bold warrior, though his doom be cast, 

 Wounded and faint, he struggles to the last. 



I am not disposed to place trolling as at all equal to spinning in 

 any one quality. It is eminently useful where there are many weeds, 

 and is very killing ; but your fish is exhausted by the time he has pouched 

 the lead-bound hook, and can give but little sport. The rod required 



