CHAP. XVI.] 



THE FO UR TH DA Y. 



175 



Or we sometimes pass an hour 



Under a green willow, 

 That defends us from a shower, 

 MakinjT earth our pillow ; 

 Where® we may 

 Think and pray 



Before death 

 Rvops our breath. 

 Other joys 

 Are but toys, 

 And to be lamented, 



Jo. Chalkhill. 



Variation.] 9 There.— u/, id, and ^d edit. 



* The name is affixed for the first time in the third edition. It appears from the 

 statement of Piscator, in page 176, that though this song was chiefly written by Chalk- 

 hill, yet that Walton having forgotten some parts of it, had himself supplied the 

 deficiencies; hence it affords another specimen of his poetical talents. Notices of 

 Chalkhill will be found in the Life of Walton. The following song, taken from Charles 

 Cotton's PoetKs., 8vo, 1689, p. 76, is to the sanie purpose, and well deserves a place 

 here : — 



Away to the brook. 



All your tackle outlook, 

 Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing. 



See that all things be right, 



For 'tis a very spight 

 To want tools when a man goes a-fishing. 



II. 



Your rod with tops two, 



For the same will not do 

 If your manner of angling you vary ; 



And full well may you think, 



If you troll with a pink, 

 One too weak will be apt to miscarry. 



The day's not too bright, 



And the wind hits us right, 

 And all nature does seem to invite us ; 



We have all things at will 



For to .'second our skill. 

 As they all did conspire to delight us. 



vin. 



On stream now, or still, 



A large pannier we'll fill, 

 Trout and Grayling to rise are so willing ; 



I dare venture to say, 



'Twill be a bloody day, 

 And we all shall be weary of killing. 



Then basket, neat made 



By a master in's trade, 

 In a belt at your shoulders must dangle ; 



For none e'er was so vain, 



To wear this to disdain 

 Who a true brother was of the angle. 



Away, then, away, 



We lose sport by delay ; 

 But first, leave all our sorrows behind us: 



If Misfortune do come. 



We are all gone from home, 

 And a-fishing she never can find us. 



Next pouch must not fail, 



StufTd as fuUas a mail, 

 With wax, crewels, silks, hair, furs, and 



To make several flies [feathery, 



For the several skies. 

 That shall kill in despight of all w«athers. 



The angler is free 



From the cares that Degree 

 Finds itself with, so often, tormented : 



And although we should slay 



Each a hundred a day, 

 'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented. 



The boxes and books 



For your lines and your hooks, 

 And, though not for strict need notwifih- 

 standing, 



Your scissars and your hone 



To adjust your points on ; 

 With a net to be sure of your landing. 



And though we display 



All our arts to betray 

 What were made for man's pleasure and 

 diet, 



Yet both princes and states 



May, for all oUr quaint bails. 

 Rule themselves and their people in quiet. 



All these being on, 



'Tis high time we were gone. 



Down and upward, that all may have plea- 

 Till, here meeting at night, [sure ; 

 We shall have the delight 



To discourse of our fortunes at lei.sure. 



We scratch not our pates, 

 Nor repine at the rates 



Our superiors impose on our living ; 

 But do frankly submit, 

 Knowing they have more wit 



In demanding, than we have in giving, 



