75 



We '11 raise them in shallow, we '11 raise them in deep, 

 In the pool's smoothest stretch, and the stream's roughest 

 sweep. 



There is not a rude brae which the current makes wroth, 

 Not an angry eddy, be-whirling in froth ; 

 Nor a single old stone with a white beard of foam, 

 But shall pay for our visit, before we win home. 



Our flies will sweep here, and our flies will float there, 

 As we try all the sleights of hook, feather and hair ; 

 Quick jerking out small, and slow leading out great, 

 Nor cease till galled shoulders complain of the weight. 



The minnow in summer its monsters can kill, 

 And the worm loads our pannier when nothing else will ; 

 But give me the spring-time, the light-dropping hackle, 

 And the masterly cast with the finest of tackle. 



Like a sensitive nerve is the long taper line, 



That doth from the tenuous fly-rod decline ; 



And the leap of the fish, with electrical start, 



Strikes swift thro' the hand, on the high-bounding heart. 



When the gods deign to hear our petitions of bliss, 

 Though we frame each a first, our joint second is this, 

 In the sweet-flowing waters of Coquet to stand, 

 With the creel on the back, and the rod in the hand. 



The Coquet-dak Fishing Songs, 1825. 



The River Wansbeck is a good stream ; but 

 it is very seldom that fly-fishers like to angle 

 in it, on account of its banks being covered so 

 densely with wood. To fish this river properly, 

 the sportsman must be an adept at chucking the 

 fly under bushes and branches of trees ; for 



