114 ART OF ANGLING. 



THE ANGLER'S SONG. 



Oh ! the gallant fisher's life, 

 It is the best of any, 

 *Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, 

 And 'tis beloved ly many : 



Other joys are but toys, 



Only this lawful is, 



For oui skill breeds no ill, 

 But content and pleasure. 



In a morning up we rise, 

 Ere Aurora's peeping-, 

 Drink a cup to wash our eyes, 

 Leave the sluggard sleeping : 



Then we go to aiifl fro, 



With our Knacks at our backs, 



To such streams as the Thames, 

 If we have the leisure. 



When we please to walk abroad 

 For our recreation, 

 In the fields is our abode, 

 Full of delectation. 



Where in a brook with a hook, 



Or a lake, fi^h we take, 



There we sit, for a bit, 

 Till we fish entangle. 



We have gentles in a horn, 

 We have paste and woitn* too, 

 We can watch both night and moru, 

 Suffer rain and storms loo : 



None do here use to swear, 



Oaths do fray fish away, 



We sit still, and watch our quill; 

 Fishers must not wrangle. 



If the Sun's excessive heat 



Make our bodies swelter, 



To an osier hedge we get 



For a friendly shelter, 

 Where in a dike Pearch or Pike, 

 Roach or Dace, we do chase, 

 Bleak or Gudgeou without grudging, 



Wt arc still contented. 



Chalkkili. 



