From the Dutch of Huijgens
When Peter condescends to write,
His verse deserves to see the light.
If any further you inquire,
I mean—the candle or the fire.
Three Sportive Fishers
Froude once asked Charles Kingsley to come to him in Ireland, where there was better fishing than in Snowdon, North Wales, the region which Kingsley and Hughes had been thinking of visiting for sport. Kingsley sent Froude’s letter to Hughes with a postscript, of which this is a part:
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
To point us out this way to glory—
They’re no great shakes, those Snowdon lakes,
And all their pounders’ myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! what’s Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
I’ll tell you where we think of going;
To ‘swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! there’s a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh-caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.