156 Salmon Fishing. 



"What ails thee now," cries the angler, as whistling through 



the air 

 Stone after stone falls from his hand, "I'll stir thee from 



thy lair," 



Or grating 'gainst the rugged rock, or some old sunken tree, 

 The strongest gut that ere was cast, must snap, and set 



thee free." 



Ah, ah ! ah, ah ! he's off again, again begins the fray, 



If fortune smile upon the brave, the salmon wins the day; 



So fleet of fin, and resolute, he rushes to and fro, 



Now he stems the foaming torrent, now dashes down below. 



Swift as the river races on, time races swifter far, 

 And yet the salmon shews no sign of falt'ring in the war, 

 But battles on, aye, as bravely, for freedom and dear life, 

 As when he seized the fatal fly, and first began the strife. 



The angler gazes round him, and, not without dismay, 



Sees shadow after shadow shut out the light of day ; 



"By heav'ns," he cries, "I'll drag thee down, unless the 



line give way, 

 Or the rod prove a traitor, and thus terminate the fray." 



One struggle more the brave fish makes, alas, 'tis all in vain, 

 The shelter of the old loved lair he'll never reach again; 

 Caught in the centre of the stream, he loses all control, 

 And like a ball of silver, down, down begins to roll. 



Below the "Red Bank's" deepest pool Dolgeogh's ford 



flows by, 



That runs like a reckless mill-race, whene're the river's high ; 

 Unless he reach the other side, the angler knows full well, 

 To all his hopes of victory he'd better say farewell ! 



