CHAP. XVI.] 



THE FO UR Til D. i Y. 



175 



Or we sometimes pass an hour 



Under a green willow, 

 That defends us from a shower, 

 Making earth our pillow ; 

 Where 9 we may 

 Think and pray 



Before death 

 Slops our breath. 

 Other joys 

 Are but toys, 

 And to be lamented. 



Jo. CHALKHILL.* 



VARIATION.] 9 There. ist, *d, and T,d edit. 



* The name is affixed for the first time in the third edition. It appears from the 

 statement of Piscator, in page 176, that though this song was chiefly written by Chalk- 

 hill, yet that Walton having forgotten some parts of it, had himself supplied the 

 deficiencies : hence it affords another specimen of his poetical talents. Notices of 

 Chalkhill will be found in the Life of Walton. The following song, taken from Charles 

 Cotton's Poems, 8vo, 1689, p. 76, is to the same purpose, and well deserves a place 

 here : 



I. VII. 



Away to the brook, The day's not too bright, 



All your tackle outlook, And the wind hits us right, 



Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing. And all nature does seem to invite us ; 



See that all things be right, 



For 'tis a very spight 

 To want tools when a man goes a-fishing. 



We have all things at will 

 For to second our skill, 

 As they all did conspire to delight us. 



Your rod with tops two, 

 For the same will not do 



If your manner of angling you vary ; 

 And full well may you think, 

 If you troll with a pink, 



One too weak will be apt to miscarry. 



in. 



Then basket, neat made 



By a master in's trade, 

 In a belt at your shoulders must dangle 



For none e'er was so vain, 



To wear this to disdain 

 Who a true brother was of the angle. 



vm. 



On stream now, or still, 



A large pannier we'll fill, 

 Trout and Grayling to rise are so willing ; 



I dare venture to say, 



'Twill be a bloody day, 

 And we all shall be weary of killing. 



IX. 



Away, then, away, 



We lose sport by delay ; 

 But first, leave all our sorrows behind us; 



If Misfortune do come, 



We are all gone from home, 

 And a-fishing she never can find us. 



Next pouch must not fail, 



StufFd as full as a mail, 

 With wax, crewels, silks, hair, furs, and 



To make several flies [feathers, 



For the several skies, 

 That shall kill in despight of all weathers. 



The boxes and books 



For your lines and your hooks, 

 And, though not for strict need notwith- 

 standing, 



Your scissars and your hone 



To adjust your points on ; 

 With a net to be sure of your landing. 



The angler is free 



From the cares that Degree 

 Finds itself with, so often, tormented : 



And although we should slay 



Each a hundred a day, 

 'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented. 



XI. 



And though we display 



All our arts to betray 



What were made for man's pleasure and 

 diet, 



Yet both princes and states 



May, for all our quaint baits, 

 Rule themselves and their people in quiet. 



VI. XII. 



All these being on, We scratch not our pates, 



'Tis high time we were gone. Nor repine at the rates 



Down and upward, that all may have plea- Our superiors impose on our living ; 

 Till, here meeting at night, [sure; I'.nt do frankly submit, 



We shall have the delight Knowing they liave more wit 



To discourse of our fortunes at leisure. In demanding, than we have in giving. 



