On stream now, or still, 
A large pannier we’ll fill, 
Trout and Grayling to rise are so willing; 
I dure venture to say, 
’Twill be a bloody day, 
And we all shall be weary of killiug. 
Away, then, away, 
We lose sport by delay; 
But first leave our sorrow behind use 
If Miss Fortune should come, 
Wc arc all gone from home, 
And a-fishing she never can find us. 
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. 
And although wo display 
All our arts to betray 
What were mnde for man’s pleasure and diet. 
Yet both princes and states 
May for all our quaint baits, 
Rule themselves and their pcoplo in quiet. 
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. 
While quiet wo sit, 
We conclude all things fit, 
Acquiescing with hearty submission : 
For, though simple, wo know 
That soft murmurs will grow 
At the last, unto downright sedition. 
