Sivut kuvina

A fine dinner was dress’d, both for him and his

guests; He was placed at the table above all the rest, In a rich chair or bed, lined with fine crimson

red, With a rich golden canopy over his head : As he sat at his meat the music play'd sweet, With the choicest of singing, his joys to complete.

While the tinker did dine, he had plenty of wine,
Rich canary and sherry, and tent superfine.
Like a right honest soul, faith, he took off his bowl,
Till at last he began for to tumble and roll
From his chair to the floor, where he sleeping did

Being seven times drunker than ever before.

Then the duke did ordain, they should strip him

amain, And restore him his old leather garments again : 'Twas a point next the worst, yet perform it they

must, And they carried him straight where they found

him at first; Then he slept all the night, as indeed well be

might; But when he did waken his joys took their flight.

For his glory to him so pleasant did seem,
That he thought it to be but a mere golden dream ;
Till at length he was brought to the duke, where

he sought For a pardon, as fearing he'd set him at nought;

But his highness he said, “Thou’rt a jolly bold

blade, Such a frolic before I think never was play'd.'

Then his highness bespoke him a new sait and

cloke, Which he gave for the sake of this frolicsome joke; Nay, and five hundred pound, with ten acres of

ground: 'Thou shalt never,' said he, 'range the countries

round, Crying, Old brass to mend, for I'll be thy good

friend, Nay, and Joan thy sweet wife shall my duchess


Then the tinker replied, 'What! must Joan, my

sweet bride, Be a lady, in chariots of pleasure to ride? Must we have gold and land ev'ry day at command? Then I shall be a squire, I well understand : Well, I thank your good grace, and your love I

embrace; I was never before in so happy a case.'


AWAY to the brook,

All your tackle out look,
Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing;

See that all things be right,

For 'tis a very spite
To want tools when a man goes a fishing.

Your rod with tops two,

For the same will not do
If your manner of angling you vary ;

And full well you may think,

If you troll with a pink,
One too weak will be apt to miscarry.

Then basket, neat made

By a master in's trade,
In a belt at your shoulders must dangle;

For none e'er was so vain

To wear this to disdain,
Who a true brother was of the angle.

Next, pouch must not fail,

Stuff'd as full as a mail, With wax, cruels, silks, hair, fars, and feathers,

To make several Aies

For the several skies,
That shall kill in despite of all weathers.

The boxes and books

For your lines and your hooks, And, though not for strict need notwithstanding,

Your scissors, and your hone

To adjust your points on,
With a net to be sure for your landing.

All these being on,

'Tis bigh time we were gone, Down, and upward, that all may have pleasure ;

Till, here meeting at night,

We shall have the delight
To discourse of our fortunes at leisure.

The day's not too bright,

And the wind hits us right,
And all pature does seem to invite us;

We have all things at will

For to second our skill,
As they all did conspire to delight us.

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Or stream now, or still,

A large panier will fill,
Trout and grailing to rise are so willing ;

I dare venture to say

'Twill be a bloody day, And we all shall be weary of killing.

Away then, away,

We lose sport by delay,
But first leave all our sorrows behind us;

If Misfortune do come,

We are all gone from home, And a fishing she never can find us.

The angler is free

From the cares that degree
Finds itself with so often tormented;

And although we should slay

Each a hundred to-day, 'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented.

And though we display

All our arts to betray
What were made for man's pleasure and diet;

Yet both princes and states

May, for all our quaint baits,
Rule themselves and their people in quiet.

We scratch not our pates,

Nor repine at the rates
Our superiors impose on onr living ;

But do frankly submit,

Knowing they have more wit
In demanding, than we have in giving.

Whilst quiet we sit

We conclude all things fit, Acquiescing with hearty submission;

For, though simple, we know

That soft murmurs will grow At the last unto downright sedition.

We care not who says,

And intends it dispraise,
That an angler ta fool is next neighbour ;

Let him prate, what care we?

We're as honest as he,
And so let him take that for his labour.

We covet no wealth,

But the blessing of health,
And that greater good conscience within ;

Such devotion we bring

To our God and our king, That from either no offers can win.

Whilst we sit and fish

We do pray as we wish, For long life to our king James the Second;

Honest anglers then may,

Or they've very foul play, With the best of good subjects be reckon'd.

C. Cotton.

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