 | Fishing gossip |  |
144
HEY FOR COQUET!
Awa' frae the smoke an' the smother!
Awa' frae the crush o' the thrang!
Awa' frae the labour an' pother,
That hae fettered our freedom sae lang!
For the May's i' fu' bloom i' the hedges,
An' the laverock's aloft i' the blue,
An' the south-wind sings low i' the sedges,
By haughs that are silvery wi' dew.
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle!
Up, gad an' gaff, an' awa'!
Cry—Hurrah! for the canny “red heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
Awa' frae the crush o' the thrang!
Awa' frae the labour an' pother,
That hae fettered our freedom sae lang!
For the May's i' fu' bloom i' the hedges,
An' the laverock's aloft i' the blue,
An' the south-wind sings low i' the sedges,
By haughs that are silvery wi' dew.
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle!
Up, gad an' gaff, an' awa'!
Cry—Hurrah! for the canny “red heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
Off, off to the bonnie brown Norland!—
It haunts me for aye i' my dreams—
To torrent, an' mountain, an' muirland,
An' to Coquet, the queen o' the streams!
To Coquet, the beautifu' river,
Beloved by the bards that sae lang
Upheld her the foremost for ever,
An' hallowed her banks wi' their sang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
It haunts me for aye i' my dreams—
To torrent, an' mountain, an' muirland,
An' to Coquet, the queen o' the streams!
To Coquet, the beautifu' river,
Beloved by the bards that sae lang
Upheld her the foremost for ever,
An' hallowed her banks wi' their sang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
145
O Sharperton streams, we are comin'!
O Halystane, greet us wi' glee!
O Rothbury, deep i' the gloamin'
We'll bring our first creelfu' to thee!
An' Alwinton, Harbottle, Hepple,—
If the great trout, the glorious an' strang,
Still sport i' your current's quick ripple,
We'll measure their inches ere lang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
O Halystane, greet us wi' glee!
O Rothbury, deep i' the gloamin'
We'll bring our first creelfu' to thee!
An' Alwinton, Harbottle, Hepple,—
If the great trout, the glorious an' strang,
Still sport i' your current's quick ripple,
We'll measure their inches ere lang!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
From Blind-burn, 'midst crag an' hill-hollow,
To Warkworth, anear the salt main,
Each turn o' fair Coquet we'll follow,
Each haunt o' our childhood regain!
At Thropton we winna dissemble
Fu' hearts, nor at Harbottle-hold,—
An' at Weldon, wi' voices a-tremble,
We'll pledge The Great Fishers o' auld!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
To Warkworth, anear the salt main,
Each turn o' fair Coquet we'll follow,
Each haunt o' our childhood regain!
At Thropton we winna dissemble
Fu' hearts, nor at Harbottle-hold,—
An' at Weldon, wi' voices a-tremble,
We'll pledge The Great Fishers o' auld!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
We'll see if the Sharperton lasses
Are winsome, as in our young days—
If they'll rin to the ringin' o' glasses,
Or the lilt o' the auld merry lays.
Oh! we'll shake off the years wi' our laughter,
We'll wash out our wrinkles wi' dew,—
An' reckless o' what may come after,
We'll revel in boyhood anew!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
Are winsome, as in our young days—
If they'll rin to the ringin' o' glasses,
Or the lilt o' the auld merry lays.
Oh! we'll shake off the years wi' our laughter,
We'll wash out our wrinkles wi' dew,—
An' reckless o' what may come after,
We'll revel in boyhood anew!
Up, angler, off wi' each shackle, etc.
146
Then back to the smoke an' the smother!
The uproar an' crush o' the thrang!
An' back to the labour an' pother—
But happy an' hearty an' strang—
Wi' a braw light o' mountain an' muirland
Out-flashing frae forehead an' e'e,
Wi' a blessing flung back to the Norland,
An' a thousand, dear Coquet, to thee!
As again we resume the auld shackle,
Our gad an' our gaff stowed awa'—
An'—good-bye to the canny “red-heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
The uproar an' crush o' the thrang!
An' back to the labour an' pother—
But happy an' hearty an' strang—
Wi' a braw light o' mountain an' muirland
Out-flashing frae forehead an' e'e,
Wi' a blessing flung back to the Norland,
An' a thousand, dear Coquet, to thee!
As again we resume the auld shackle,
Our gad an' our gaff stowed awa'—
An'—good-bye to the canny “red-heckle,
The heckle that tackled them a'!”
T. W.
200
A LAY OF THE LEA.
I'm an old man now,
Stiff limb and frosty pow,
But stooping o'er my flickering fire, in the winter weather,
I behold a vision
Of a time elysian,
And I cast my crutch away, and I snap my tether!
Stiff limb and frosty pow,
But stooping o'er my flickering fire, in the winter weather,
I behold a vision
Of a time elysian,
And I cast my crutch away, and I snap my tether!
Up i' the early morning,
Sleepy pleasures scorning,
Rod in hand and creel on back, I'm away, away!
Not a care to vex me—
Nor a fear perplex me—
Blithe as any bird that pipes in the merry May.
Sleepy pleasures scorning,
Rod in hand and creel on back, I'm away, away!
Not a care to vex me—
Nor a fear perplex me—
Blithe as any bird that pipes in the merry May.
O the Enfield meadows,
Dappled with soft shadows!
O the leafy Enfield lanes, odorous of May blossom!
O the lapsing river,
Lea, beloved for ever,
With the rosy morning light mirrored on its bosom!
Dappled with soft shadows!
O the leafy Enfield lanes, odorous of May blossom!
O the lapsing river,
Lea, beloved for ever,
With the rosy morning light mirrored on its bosom!
201
Out come reel and tackle—
Out come midge and hackle—
Length of gut like gossamer, on the south wind streaming—
And brace of palmers fine,
As ever decked a line,
Dubbed with herl, and ribbed with gold, in the sunlight gleaming.
Out come midge and hackle—
Length of gut like gossamer, on the south wind streaming—
And brace of palmers fine,
As ever decked a line,
Dubbed with herl, and ribbed with gold, in the sunlight gleaming.
Bobbing 'neath the bushes,
Crouched among the rushes,
On the rights of crown and state, I'm, alas! encroaching—
What of that? I know
My creel will soon o'erflow,
If a certain Cerberus do not spoil my poaching.
Crouched among the rushes,
On the rights of crown and state, I'm, alas! encroaching—
What of that? I know
My creel will soon o'erflow,
If a certain Cerberus do not spoil my poaching.
202
As I throw my flies,
Fish on fish doth rise,
Roach and dace by dozens, on the bank they flounder.
Presently a splash,
And a furious dash,
Lo! a logger-headed chub, and a fat two-pounder!
Fish on fish doth rise,
Roach and dace by dozens, on the bank they flounder.
Presently a splash,
And a furious dash,
Lo! a logger-headed chub, and a fat two-pounder!
Shade of Isaak, say
Did you not one day,
Fish for logger-headed chub, by this very weir?
'Neath these very trees,
Down these shady leas,—
Where's the nightingale that ought to be singing here?
Did you not one day,
Fish for logger-headed chub, by this very weir?
'Neath these very trees,
Down these shady leas,—
Where's the nightingale that ought to be singing here?
Now, in noontide heat,
Here I take my seat;
Izaak's book beguiles the time—of Izaak's book I say,
Never dearer page
Gladdened youth or age,
Never sweeter soul than his blessed the merry May.
Here I take my seat;
Izaak's book beguiles the time—of Izaak's book I say,
Never dearer page
Gladdened youth or age,
Never sweeter soul than his blessed the merry May.
For the while I read,
'Tis as if indeed,
Peace and joy and gentle thoughts from each line were welling;
As if earth and sky
Took a tenderer dye,
And as if within my heart fifty larks were trilling.
'Tis as if indeed,
Peace and joy and gentle thoughts from each line were welling;
As if earth and sky
Took a tenderer dye,
And as if within my heart fifty larks were trilling.
203
Ne'er should angler stroll,
Ledger, dap, or troll,
Without Izaak in his pouch, on the banks of Lea;—
Ne'er with worm or fly,
Trap the finny fry,
Without loving thoughts of him, and—Benedicite!
Ledger, dap, or troll,
Without Izaak in his pouch, on the banks of Lea;—
Ne'er with worm or fly,
Trap the finny fry,
Without loving thoughts of him, and—Benedicite!
So to sport again,
With my palmers twain—
Ha! a lovely speckled trout—where's its peer, I wonder?
And there's a dace—you ne'er
Saw finer, I declare—
There's—by all that's cruel, yes—there's my Cerberus yonder!
With my palmers twain—
Ha! a lovely speckled trout—where's its peer, I wonder?
And there's a dace—you ne'er
Saw finer, I declare—
There's—by all that's cruel, yes—there's my Cerberus yonder!
Up go rod and tackle!
Up go midge and hackle!
Hurry scurry, down the path, fast my foe approaches—
Wheel the line in steady!
Now all's right and ready—
Izaak makes a sudden plunge 'mongst the bleak and roaches.
Up go midge and hackle!
Hurry scurry, down the path, fast my foe approaches—
Wheel the line in steady!
Now all's right and ready—
Izaak makes a sudden plunge 'mongst the bleak and roaches.
Hollo, hollo, hollo!
Will he dare to follow?
Over dykes, with flying leaps—over gates and hedges!
Hollo, hollo, hollo!
Will he dare to follow?
No! I look behind and see nought but stream and sedges.
Will he dare to follow?
Over dykes, with flying leaps—over gates and hedges!
204
Will he dare to follow?
No! I look behind and see nought but stream and sedges.
O the pleasant roaming
Homeward thro' the gloaming!
O the heavy creel, alack! O the joyful greeting!
O the jokes and laughter,
And the sound sleep after,
And the happy, happy dreams, all the sport repeating!
Homeward thro' the gloaming!
O the heavy creel, alack! O the joyful greeting!
O the jokes and laughter,
And the sound sleep after,
And the happy, happy dreams, all the sport repeating!
I'm an old man now,
Stiff limb and frosty pow,
But stooping o'er my flickering fire, in the winter weather,
Oft I see this vision
Of a time elysian—
And I cast my crutch away, and escape my tether!
Stiff limb and frosty pow,
But stooping o'er my flickering fire, in the winter weather,
Oft I see this vision
Of a time elysian—
And I cast my crutch away, and escape my tether!
T. W.
Does any one of my readers happen to remember the Cerberus in question, Tim Bates, the guardian of the Crown waters, at Waltham Abbey, some five-and-twenty years ago—the omnipresent, the incorruptible Tim Bates, whom no expostulation could move, no entreaty melt, and who was even impervious to half-crowns? This unwinking worthy, one of the bêtes noires of my angling boyhood, spoiled me many a day's sport by his untimely apparition; and I confess to a feeling of heathenish satisfaction, on hearing of the Lea's ingratitude, and how, unlike Tiber in the case of Horatius, it did not “bear up” Tim Bates's “chin,” when he slipped into its depth, with mortal result, one foggy night or morning.
Chatto mentions him in his Angler's Souvenir, and celebrates his “lynx eyes.”
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