BO TROLLING IN STAFFORDSHIRE. 



Forget thee, no ! the scenes we rov'd 



The evening walk, the sheltered bower, 

 And more than all that song you lov'd 



And wept to, in the moonlit hour. 

 These still are mine, and oh that lay 



If e'er from other lips thou hearest, 

 Thou 'It think of her who 's far away, 



And weep as then thou did'st, my dearest. 



Forget thee, no ! tho' pitying friends 



In kindness bid me not repine. 

 There's none whose care so gently tends. 



Whose accents sound so soft as thine. 

 I should be grateful, but I turn 



To where thy dreary course thou steerest, 

 Where India's skies above thee burn, 



Yet would that I were with thee, dearest. 



Forget thee, love! in vain, in vain, 



This cheek is pale, these eyes are wet, 

 And tho' this heart is wrung with pain 



I would not if I could forget. 

 Then wherefore breathe that idle word, 



I could not be the thing thou fearest, 

 Tho' here thy name be never heard, 



To me 'tis more than life, my dearest. 



After two or three attempts, (for the fish was 

 wary,) I at last succeeded in taking a pike at the 

 spot John Porter had pointed out. It was not 

 however that monster of the deep he had de- 

 scribed it to be, as it did not weigh more than 

 seven pounds. It was however a well fed and 

 good conditioned fish, probably owing to the young 

 ducks it had been in the habit of devouring. I 

 found that the capture of this pike occasioned the 

 honest old man to look with less contempt at my 



