156 FISHING GOSSIP. 



The dart flew true and the monster slew, 



The seamen blessed the day, 

 All from his fin, a bone so thin, 



At the top of my rod doth play. 

 St. George, etc. 



" Moulded and mixed is the magic mass, 



The sun is below the hill, 

 O'er the dark water flits the bat, 



Hoarse sounds the murmuring rill, 

 Slowly bends the willow's bough, 



To the beetle's sullen tune, 

 And grim and red is the angry head 



Of the archer in the moon. 

 Softly, softly, spread the spell, 



Softly spread it around, 

 But name not the magic mixture 



To mortal that breathes on ground. 

 St. George, etc. 



" The squire has tapped at the bower window, 



The day is one hour old, 

 Thine armour assume, the work of the loom, 



To defend thee from the cold. 

 The Knight arose, and donned his clothes, 



For one hour old was the day, 

 His armour he took, his rod and his hook, 



And his line of the palfrey grey. 

 He has brushed the dew from oft the lawn, 



He has taken the depth by the rule ; 

 Here is gentle to eat, come partake of the treat, 



Sly tenant of the pool. 

 St. George, etc. 



