THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 175 



How fertile are the banks on which I stand, 

 With flow'rs adorn'd by Nature's gen'rous hand ? 

 How kindly they defend the neighb'ring grounds, 

 And keep the swelling floods within their bounds, 

 Whilst bleating flocks upon their edges graze. 

 And with cool herbs prolong their happy days ? 

 How good is bounteous heaven, to bestow 

 Such mercies on its creatures here below ? 



O bless ! adsheart, what a huge jack is there ! 



O that I had iny troling-line or snare : 

 What a dull thoughtless fool was I to come, 

 Thus, bungler-like, and leave my tools at home P 

 Sure my cross stars with Fortune's frowns unite, 

 What a rare supper shall I lose this night ? 

 Nouns, I could leap upon thee, and bestride 

 Thy brawny back, and like Orion ride : 

 How quick he's fled, as if the rogue could hear 

 My murm'ring threats, and shot away for fear. 

 'Tis well thou'rt gone, or I'd have found some way 

 To've stop'd thy journey, and have forc'd thy stay : 

 For thou art grown to such a large extent, 

 That butter ought to be thy element. 



Bless us ! what flights of starlings tow'r aloft, 

 And how the pidgeons cover yonder croft ? 

 What shame it is they should in triumph feed, 

 And to the farmer's wrong, devour his seed. 

 Had I my gun, I'd wish no fairer sight ; 



What slaughter could I wounds ! A bite, a bite. 



I've miss'd again, but this loss is not much, 

 'Twas but a minnoe, or some puny roach. 

 Some nibling fry that scarce could sink the float, 

 Not worth the dressing if he had been caught. 



