The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook. active 19th century Novice
were they never?
Some things I've seen would p'rhaps say, "No,
As now they were not ever."
But think not, reader, I intend
To write on why and wherefore;
I know not what these folks will mend,
So cannot tell you therefore.
(Though industry in some to plant
I tried, and put in training;
But soon they cried, "O mend-i-cant!"—
So beggars are remaining.)
Nor is it now my wish to write
On Ireland's beauteous scenery;
Though filled with rapture and delight,
I'll spare you what I've seen; or I
Might fill a dozen pages quite,
Describing lakes and greenery.
No; such is not my present plan,
On angling turns my story:
The pleasures of a fisherman
I soon shall lay before ye.
By some mishap at Hull or Cork,
My tackle was mislaid;
So fate did inclination baulk,
And sport some days delayed.
I just had purchased, all quite new,
Of flies a complete set;
And though I had my rod, 'tis true,
I would not fresh ones get.
I'll wait, thinks I, and roam about,
Though some days it may cost.
I'll find the lucky places out,
So time will not be lost.
By telegraph's electric wire,
Or steam, I'll let them know
The place to which I'd fain desire
These luckless flies should go.
'Twas on a morn as bright as fair
As any time, or anywhere,
Mine eyes have ever seen;
For bright and cloudless was the sky,
And blue as any maiden's eye,
Where tears have seldom been.
It made my heart with pleasure beat;
A lightness seemed to raise my feet,
And bear them forth to roam,
Ere yet the morning meal was laid,
To ramble down a mossy glade
Some many miles from home.
Then climbed I up a dew-bathed steep,
Just on the other side to peep
And see what might be there.
By tangled branches grasped right close,
Above impediments I rose,
And, lo, a valley fair!
Where, 'midst the shade of drooping trees,
All quiv'ring in the morning breeze,
Appeared a glitt'ring stream,
Which ran for miles, than gold more bright;
Refulgent with the source of light,
The waves like diamonds gleam.
Impelled I rushed like some wild deer,
And bounding o'er each bramble near,
Like torrent's fearful course,
Was forced to run a whole field's length
Before expended was the strength
Of gravitation's force.
When at the water's side, I found
An aged man, who gazed around
Half terrified, to see
If some mad bull approached that way,
Or steam-engine had gone astray;
And stared surprised at me.
I bowed to him, and begged, polite,
His pardon for the sudden fright
Which I, unconscious, gave.
"It was the beauteous scene which made
Me scamper down so wild," I said;
"For which I pardon crave.
For, like yourself, I love the sport,
And 'twas this sparkling stream which brought
Out hitherward my feet.
What numbers, sir! what splendid trout!
You must have early sallied out:
Such sport I seldom meet!"
"A stranger, then, you are," said he;
"The fishes here bite mostly free,
They love the gaudy fly.
But scarce an hour I here have been,
And hooked the few that you have seen
For breakfast. By the bye,
I very nearly had forgot
That time for me will tarry not,
That hour is drawing nigh.
But, sir, with pleasure, if you love
The sport, I'll show you where they rove,
For often here am I;
And every nook and hole I know,
Which any time you please I'll show:
My house you yonder spy".
I, thanking, praised the old man's skill,
Though, as I viewed him nearer still,
I deemed him younger far
Than I at first beholding thought;
'Twas care, not age, had deeply wrought
The wrinkle-furrowed scar.
But though erect as poplar straight,
He bent not 'neath the crushing weight
Of Time's remorseless might.
Yet few and scanty were his locks,
Which were than Shetland's rill-bathed flocks
Longer and purer white.
A sudden int'rest in mine eyes,
Which unaccounted will arise
Ofttimes within the brain,
I felt tow'rds him, and longed to know
What circumstance had made him so—
If grief, or wearing pain.
He friendly seemed, and not averse
On fishing topics to converse;
At length I told my woe,
How that my flies and lines behind
Were left.