152 LECKFORD FISHING CLUB. 



Our Duke,* whom cloudless sky and eastern breeze, 

 Full oft, as 'twere in sport conspire to teaze, 

 Yet, ever gentle and serene, defies 

 The malice of east-winds, and cloudless skies ; 

 And bending to fair nature's fickle will, 

 Fat calm, he's calmer than the sun-clad hill ; 

 Or if it poura from her he takes his cue, 

 And, in libation to the day, pours too. 



But oh ! for the sweet verdant rising plot, 

 Where erst, around the vicar's decent cot, 

 E're tasteless ignorance had dar*d invade 

 Our creeping honey-suckle's scented shade, 

 The crimson speckled game laid out in state, 

 From four to one pound, and Tom's t under weight ; 

 Their bright sides mottled by death's various hue, 

 The prowess of each arm display'd to view. 



From morn to night when Kerrick knew no rest, 

 And Scott's* quick eye, e'en quick-ey'd Mo confess'd, 

 When Gordon's pealing slumbers wont to burst 

 The trembling walls of middle room, or worst ; 

 (The walls where Gordon fitted in so well, 

 Clean as a crab, or cob nut to its shell 

 Gordon, who all good-nature, will excuse 

 The saucy mirth of no unfriendly muse.) 

 And Cythercan songs that Mistress Moore 

 Lov*d, as she listened at the parlour door, 

 In concert with the cock's shrill matin -horn, 

 Proclaim'd to sleeping villagers 'twas morn. 

 Ah 1 ere the fleeting voice of merriment 

 Hath left, in stillness left, our jovial tent, 

 Here, ere we part, we'll pledge one cup to him, 

 The life of Leckford, and the soul of whim, 



Duke of Argyle; one of the last of the survivor of the 

 party. 



t Tom Sheridan. 

 J Henry Scott, Esq., brother to Lady Oxford. 



