From "Poems of Henry Van Dyke." Copyright, 1911, 1920, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.

THE ANGLER

Oh! the gallant fisher's life,
It is the best of any;

'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis beloved by many:

Other joys

Are but toys,

Only this

Lawful is;

For our skill

Breeds no ill,

But content and pleasure.

In a morning up we rise,
Ere Aurora's peeping:
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,

Leave the sluggard sleeping:

Then we go
To and fro,

With our knacks
At our backs,

To such streams

As the Thames,

If we have the leisure.

When we please to walk abroad
For our recreation,
In the fields is our abode,

Full of delectations:

Where in a brook

With a hook,

Or a lake,

Fish we take;

There we sit,

For a bit,

Till we fish entangle.

We have gentles in a horn,

We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn Suffer rain and storms too; None do here

Use to swear,
Oaths do fray

Fish away;

We sit still,

And watch our quill;

Fishers must not wrangle.

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST

If the sun's excessive heat

Make our bodies swelter,
To an osier-hedge we get
For a friendly shelter;
Where in a dyke
Perch or pike,
Roach or dace,

We do chase,
Bleak or gudgeon
Without grudging;

We are still contented.

Or we sometimes pass an hour
Under a green willow
That defends us from a shower,
Making earth our pillow;

Where we may

Think and pray,
Before death

Stops our breath:

Other joys

Are but toys,

And to be lamented.

-Izaak Walton ("John Chalkhill'').

THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST

Of all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can surpass

This delicate, voluptuous thing,—

This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?

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Upon a damask napkin laid,

What exhalations superfine
Our gustatory nerves pervade,
Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!

The ancients loved this noble fish;
And, coming from the kitchen fire
All piping hot upon a dish,

What raptures did he not inspire? "Fish should swim twice," they used to say,— Once in their native, vapid brine,

And then again, a better way—

You understand; fetch on the wine!

Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
How often have I cast for you,
How often sadly seen you scud

Where weeds and water-lilies grew!
How often have you filched my bait,
How often snapped my treacherous line!

Yet here I have you on this plate,

You shall swim twice, and now in wine.

And harkee, garçon! let the blood

Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,—

Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood

This piscatorial pride should swim;

So, were he living, he would say

He gladly died for me and mine,

And, as it were his native spray,

He'd lash the sauce-what, ho! the wine!

ON A RIVER BANK SO GREEN

I would it were ordained for me
To share your fate, O finny friend!
I surely were not loath to be

Reserved for such a noble end;

For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim,
At last reels in his ruthless line,
What were my ecstasy to swim

In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!

Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring!
And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth,
Come hither every year and bring

The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low,
However much I might repine,

I think I might survive the blow,

If plied with wine and still more wine!

-Eugene Field.

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From "Poems of Eugene Field." Copyright, 1910, by Julia S. Field. Charles Scribner's Sons.

ON A RIVER BANK SO GREEN

I sorter look away off,

Where the sky is all serene,

An' I want to take a day off
On a river bank so green.

Fish, fish, fish,

An' the line a-goin' "Swish!"
(Oh, the perch is sich a beauty
When he's fried an' in the dish!)