THE ANGLER'S SOUVENIR. 



79 



positively be " the last time of asking." Something 

 fishy, if you have such a thing in the cupboard of 

 your memory. 



TWEDDELL. I have just been rummaging, and 

 I think I have hit upon the very tiling ; but I 

 expect that you will sing after me. 



FISHER. So I will, but not to-night. I will 

 chant matins, in the morning, in a style that will 

 enrapture you. If there be a lark within hearing, 

 he will make himself hoarse till May in feeble 

 emulation. Silence ! have done making that noise 

 with the stopper on the table, Simpson. You are 

 crying to recollect some of your old " composers," 

 I perceive. Get the start of him, Tweddell. 



TWEDDELL. Well then, since such is your wish, 

 you shall have another stave. 



THE ANGLER'S EVEN-SONG. 



Sober eve is approaching, the sun is now set, 

 Though his beams on the hill-top are lingering yet ; 

 The west wind is still, and more clearly is heard 

 In meadow and forest the note of each bird: 

 The crows to their roost are now winging their way: 

 It is time to give over my fishing to-day. 



I arose in the morn, ere the sun could prevail 

 To disperse the grey mist that hung low in the vale. 

 To the linn I went straight, distant ten miles or more, 

 Where the stream rushes down with a bound and a roar; 

 In the black pool below I had scarce thrown my line, 

 Ere a trout seized the fly, and directly was mine. 



