 | Fishing gossip |  |
A LAY OF THE LEA.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!
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?
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.
'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.
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!
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 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.
Will he dare to follow?
Over dykes, with flying leaps—over gates and hedges!
Will he dare to follow?
No! I look behind and see nought but stream and sedges.
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!
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!
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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