8o 



THE ANGLERS SOUVENIR. 



flow they rose, and I hooked them, 'twere needless to tell. 

 I fished down the stream to the lone cradle-well, 

 Where I sat myself down on a stone that was nigh, 

 (For the sun now was bright, and the trouts getting shy:) 

 A flask of good whisky I had not failed to bring, 

 And I chasten'd its strength with a dash from the spring. 



Kefreshed then I rose, and ascended the hill, 

 To gaze on the landscape so lonely and still ; 

 Where I met an old shepherd, and near him lay down, 

 At the back of a cairn, where the heather was brown ; 

 And we talked of old times, and he sang an old strain, 

 Till 'twas time to be gone to my fishing again. 



Though my creel be so large, to the lid closely filled, 



It will not hold the trouts which since mornin g I've killed : 



I must string on a withy three dozen or more, 



I ne'er in a day caught so many before, 



But though heavy my creel, yet my heart is so light 



That I'll sing a song of my fishing at night. 



SIMPSON. Now, a toast to conclude with, Mr. 

 Tweddell. 



TWEDDELL. " The gentle art of Angling ! " 



FISHER. A charming toast ; no ballroom belle so 

 deserving of a bumper. " Her ways are the ways 

 of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." 



SIMPSON. The best thing you have said to-night, 

 Fisher ; and most cordially do I say, Ditto. 



[Exeunt omnes. 



