Preface. 



Xlll 



one or other of the " Newcaftle Fifhers' Garlands," 1 

 a feries of lyrics lefs known than they deferve, and 

 which contain fome as racy and lilting ftanzas as any 

 in our tongue. 



1 The collection of Garlands referred to have, as poems, a claim 

 on our critical recognition, apart from their mere angling fignifi- 

 cance. They are hearty, genial, vigorous compofitions, of a ftri£Hy 

 local growth, and replete with local colouring and imagery — veritable 

 north-country lyrics, both in fentiment and accentuation. 



Though monotonous in fubje£t, they are very various in treatment, 

 and many are the chords ftruck in them between the extremes of the 

 humorous and pathetic, As metrical eflays, alfo, they have great 

 merit ; mufical and harmonious in their cadences, when fofter themes 

 are touched, in ftronger moods there is a rough blufter in their 

 rhythm, as of a Northumbrian wind that has battled with crags and 

 fears. Coquet is not more changeful than they. They ripple 

 athwart the mallows, purl and prattle amongft the pebbles, grow 

 fteady and mafterful in the deep pools, and rufh, headlong, down the 

 currents. " They are Coquet all over," fays Doubleday, one of their 

 writers — adding, too modeftly, that it is their chief merit. The love 

 of Coquet is, in facl:, the motive fpring of moft of thefe poems, cer- 

 tainly of all the beft of them, and even a ftranger, who has never fet 

 eyes on that beautiful ftream, is made to feel, through their ftanzas, 

 fomething of the witchery it exercifes on thofe who haunt its banks. 



That the habit of thefe annual lyrics mould have fallen into defue- 

 tude from the year 1845 to tne prefent time (when a new and im- 

 proved edition, with continuations, is about to appear), muft be matter 

 of regret to every lover of the gentle craft and of the joyous fcience. 

 It died out with the little knot of cheerful, enthufiaftic, genial-minded 

 men, its originators, men who fang the praifes of Coquet as by fimple 

 vocation, and whofe hearts pulfed to the pulfing of their favourite 



