Salmon Fishing. 197 



Beneath that cruel ledge of rocks, 



Full many a fathom deep, 

 The seething whirlpool drags him down 



To death's last lonesome sleep ; 

 A few air-bubbles upward rise, 

 The only token where he lies. 



The birds are singing as before 



On every bush and tree, 

 The sun shines just as warm and bright, 



But where, Oh ! where is he, 

 Who went down to the river Wye, 

 For the first time his skill to try ? 



Many a mishap have I had in the Dovey, 

 principally, I fear, though not always, owing 

 to my foolhardiness in trying to ford the river 

 at a high water, when nothing more serious 

 than a good ducking was the result. 



One day, and that a bitter cold one in 

 February, I was higher up the river with my 

 rod than usual, and walking at least four miles 

 an hour, to try and retain a small modicum 

 of caloric in my shivering body. My thoughts 

 were very busy at the time, but far away from 

 the scene, or the subject of salmon-fishing. 



