EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 113 



I haul it on the beach, 



It quivers and expires j 

 Again my line I stretch, 



But chill' d are my desires ! 



My Father scolds with wrath, 



And says I am a fool ; 

 And strikes me with a lath, 



And drives me back to school ! 



Van Merke was sure a sprightly lad, 

 He swill'd his gin, and us'd his gad, 



And caught the rosy salmon ; 

 He would plunge the Ehine fearlessly 

 To throw a line into the sea, 



He'd turn his back on no man. 



He fed the market with his store, 

 No fisherman could well do more, 



Skilled in his craft was he ; 

 To throw the line o'er glossy pool, 

 Or skew'd it round the rocky knoll, 



That peeps into the sea. 



He cheer' d me up, and call'd me dove, 

 I was his charmer and his love, 



He'd press me to his breast ; 

 At length we to the altar went, 

 The source of joy and pure content, 



Where fishers sure may find a rest. 



10 



