The Angler’s Farewell
“Resigned, I kissed the rod.”
Well! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,
Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!
I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish
To inveigle the fish,
To my gentle they will not play simple!
Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,
And the Chub, tho’ it’s chubby, be thinnish!
Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook
With attention I look,
I can ne’er see my hook with a Tench on!
At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape,
But they seem upon different terms now;
Have they taken advice
Of the “Council of Nice,”
And rejected their “Diet of Worms,” now?
In vain my live minnow I spin,
Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching;
For the gut I have brought,
I had better have bought
A good rope that was used to Jack-ketching!
Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,
It is vain in this river to search then;
I may wait till it’s night,
Without any bite
And at roost-time have never a Perch then!
No Roach can I meet with—no Bleak,
Save what in the air is so sharp now;
Not a Dace have I got,
And I fear it is not
“Carpe diem,” a day for the Carp now!
Oh! there is not a one-pound prize
To be got in this fresh-water-lottery!
What then can I deem
Of so fishless a stream
But that ’tis—like St. Mary’s—Ottery!
For an Eel I have learned how to try,
By a method of Walton’s own showing—
But a fisherman feels
Little prospect of Eels,
In a path that’s devoted to towing!
I have tried all the water for miles,
Till I’m weary of dipping and casting,
And hungry and faint—
Let the Fancy just paint
What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting!
And the rain drizzles down very fast,
While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell—
So, wet to the skin,
I’ll e’en back to my inn,
Where at least I am sure of a Bar-bell!
TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.
“Sweeping our flocks and herds.”—DOUGLAS.
O Philanthropic men!—
For this address I need not make apology—
Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen,
And planting further off its vile Zoology—
Permit me thus to tell,
I like your efforts well,
For routing that great nest of Hornithology!
Be not dismay’d, although repulsed at first,
And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts,
Charge on!—you shall upon their hornworks burst,
And carry all their Bull-warks and their Ram-parts.
Go on, ye wholesale drovers!
And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds!
As wild as Tartar-Curds,
That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers;
Off with them all!—those restive brutes, that vex
Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle;
And save the female sex
From being cow’d—like Iö—by the cattle!
Fancy,—when droves appear on
The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,—
Your ladies—ready, as they own, to drop,
Taking themselves to Thomson’s with a Fear-on!
Or, in St. Martin’s Lane,
Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,—
Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,
While rushing souse
Into a coffee-house,
To find it—Slaughter’s!
Or fancy this:—
Walking along the street, some stranger Miss,
Her head with no such thought of danger laden,
When suddenly ’tis “Aries Taurus Virgo!”—
You don’t know Latin, I translate it ergo,
Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!
Think of some poor old crone
Treated, just like a penny, with a toss!
At that vile spot now grown
So generally known
For making a Cow Cross!
Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall,
Or shed, or shop—and that an Ox infuriate
Just pins you to the wall,
Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate!
Methinks I hear the neighbors that live round
The Market-ground
Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows—
“’Tis well for you that live apart—unable
To hear this brutal Babel,
But our firesides are troubled with their bellows.”
“Folks that too freely sup
Must e’en put up
With their own troubles if they can’t digest;
But we must needs regard
The case as hard
That others’ victuals should disturb our rest,
That from our sleep your food should start and jump us!
We like, ourselves, a steak,
But, Sirs, for pity’s sake!
We don’t want oxen at our doors to rump-us!”
“If we do doze—it really is too bad!
We constantly are roar’d awake or rung,
Through bullocks mad
That run in all the ‘Night Thoughts’ of our Young!”
Such are the woes of sleepers—now let’s take
The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake!
O think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts,
Think of these “Bulls of Basan,” far from mild ones;
Such fierce tame beasts,
That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!
Think of the Show woman, “what shows a Dwarf,”
Seeing a red Cow come
To swallow her Tom Thumb,
And forc’d with broom of birch to keep her off!
Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co.,
When looking at their public private boxes,
To see in the back row
Three live sheep’s heads, a porker’s, and an Ox’s!
Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come
Through, to accompany the double drum!
Or, in the midst of murder and remorses,
Just when the Ghost is certain,
A great rent in the curtain,
And enter two tall skeletons—of Horses!
Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics
Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation,
Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon,
The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication!
Let the old Fair have fair play, as its right,
And to each Show and sight
Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude;
To Richardson’s Stage Dramas,
Dio—and Cosmo—ramas,
Giants and Indians wild,
Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child,
And that most rare of Shows—a Show of Gratitude!