142 Salmon Fishing. 



See, how the streets are swarming 

 Towards the churchyard gate, 



With endless crowds of mourners 

 Of every age and state ! 



Let gold and gorgeous splendour 

 Be lavished on the dead, 



And all that art can proffer, 

 Bedeck her earthen bed ! 



What tribute to their darling 

 More soothing could there be, 



To the reft parents' feelings, 

 Than a town's sympathy? 



Not seldom has the angler, 

 When under Fancy's spell, 



And wandering down the valley, 

 Still heard the muffled bell. 



And as the river hastened 

 Down to the distant sea, 



He thought of time fast running 

 Into eternity. 



And faces once familiar 

 Smiled on him as of yore 



Of angling friends departed 

 Hence to a happier shore. 



But foremost were the features 

 Of the fair girl whose pride, 



Was to be thus loved on earth, 

 Thus mourned for when she died. 



