enrapture you. If there be a lark within hearing he 

 will make himself hoarse till May in feeble emula- 

 tion. Silence! have done making that noise with 

 the stopper on the table, Simpson. You are trying 

 to recollect some of your old "composers," I perceive. 

 Get the start of him, Tweddell. 



T WE DDE LL. Well then, since such is your wish, 

 you shall have another stave. 



THE ANGLER'S EVEN-SONG-. 

 Sober eve is approaching, the sun is now set, 

 Though his beams on the hill-top are lingering yet ; 

 The west wind is still, and more clearly is heard 

 In meadow and forest the note of each bird: 

 The crows to their roost are now winging their way: 

 It is time to give over my fishing to-day. 



I arose in the morn, ere the sun could prevail 

 To disperse the grey mist that hung low in the vale. 

 To the linn I went straight, distant ten miles or more 

 Where the stream rushes down with a bound and 



a roar ; 



In the black pool below I had scarce thrown my line, 

 Ere a trout seized the fly, and directly was mine. 



How they rose, and I hooked_them, 'twere needless 



to tell. 



I fished down the stream to the lone cradle-well, 

 Where I sate myself down on a stone that was nigh, 

 (For the sun now was bright, and the trouts getting 



shy ;) 



A flask of good whiskey I had not failed to bring, 

 And I chasten'd its strength with a dash from the 



spring. 



