Then the friar, impatient, began to use force.
Oh! how then enraged, from his head he tore
The little of hair that his cropped pate bore,
As he flung himself down out of breath to the ground,
And furious raved at each object around.
While such very bad words at the fish he said,
That I'm sure they should never in print be read.
For, pray why should a muse, for amusement who sings,
Fill her kind readers' mouth with another's foul things.
'Tis a fault I lament, so I'll not have a share in
The habit some have of quotation in swearing.
In heavy drops the water now descends;
And earth with sky the darkening torrent blends.
Which soaking through the friar, tries to cool
His anger, and persuade him he's a fool.
"But still," said he; "I will not leave in spite,
Till one I've caught, although the coming night
Shall fling down shadows to obscure my sight;
Here will I stop until they choose to bite."
Then Time rushed past, but unsuccessful still
His firm resolve he tarries to fulfil.
While louder yet the tempest wildly roars,
And drives the torrent o'er surrounding shores.
Whence down, resistless, onward bounding hurls
The bubbling current, and like whirlpool curls.
The frightened fish, too nervous, far, to feed,
Dive down and hide beneath a battered reed.
Yet to measure the stream with his line he persists,
Though his arms they feel sprained, and ache down to the wrists;
And the darkness of night appeared really approaching,
As quick shade after shade on his light came encroaching.
But, wearied now, the rain gives o'er the fight,
Though thundering clouds have not expended quite
Their rumbling yet; and oft the forkèd light
Illumes the stream, which to the friar shows
How high the waters o'er its margin flows.
It is supper-time now, and a fish growing bold,
On the bait as it neared him caught suddenly hold.
How the fisherman grins as the cord outward rolled,
Though he shivers, and all his teeth chatter with cold.
"How it runs! how it runs! like an arrow it flies!
I am certain," he said; "'tis a fish of great size.
For my patience, though late, I shall still gain a prize.
Sure, I think, it down straight
Must have swallowed the bait;
For, of line but a few yards are left.
I must strike, or I fear
They will too, disappear,
And he then may walk off with his theft."
'Twas a capital stroke,
But his top-joint he broke,
So he seizes the line with his hand.
And then works it about,
Till he's tired quite out,
For the fish seems averse to the land.
"Patience, patience!" he said,
Talking inside his head;
"Have you not tried for hours, and have yet taken naught?
Then be patient and wait,
Though it p'rhaps may be late,
Still the fish at the end of your line is half caught."
An hour passed, and every gleam of light
Flies, with the sun afraid of gloomy night.
Yet still our friend is in the selfsame plight,
The fish is lively, though he's wearied quite.
And shakes, not now with cold alone, but fright,
For every tree he fancies is a sprite.
His sport, I fear, is not unmix'd delight.
He once or twice had drawn the line up tight,
And thought by strength to drag the fish out right,
But feared that, p'rhaps, it like the other might
Escape; so slackening, granted a respite
To Jack, who, rushing forth with new delight,
Seemed much astonished at this act polite.
Another hour! and lively as before
The pike appears; while Peter, wearied sore,
With itching fingers longs his fate to try,
Yet dares not stand the hazard of the die.
But with a dash the fish the die has cast,
For through his hand the slippery line ran fast;
And, tangling 'mongst his fingers, drew him close
The rapid stream; which o'er its banks had rose,
A slip, a plunge, headforemost in the tide
He dived; then rising—vainly struggling—tried
To reach the bank; but not a ray of light
Appeared to guide; so deeper in his fright
He sank; while waves fast closing o'er his head,
In murmurings whispered, that all hope had fled.
Then down the stream, still powerful and strong,
The fish his breathless body drags along.
Now in case that my tale may to some appear dry,
I will draw some more-ales,—fine old ones, by the bye;
Though, I fear, there are many who will not admire them,
As they suit not those palates who mostly require them.
First, young gentlemen all, never mind what degree,
Whether lowly or high, or whoever you be,
If you're but fond of fishing, I beg that you'll tricks shun;
If you're not, you're beneath me and my jurisdiction.
Still I'll draw you a glass which will pay for inspection,
As whene'er it is looked at it yields some reflexion.
Though the draught may be bitter, the faculty back it,
So just make up your mind,—a bold face, and stomach it;
For there's more in the dose than aware of you are,
As the old ancient said when he poisoned his Ma.
My advice, if wishing
You are to go fishing,
Is beforehand permission to get
From your father, or master,
Or, if such things you past are,
You had better, I think, seek it yet
From the man in possession,
Who might use some expression
Unpolite, if by chance he you met
Treading down his long grass,
In your hurry to pass
To the river, your tackle to wet.
Oh, it vexes one sore to be ordered to go!
Quick to make one's self scarce! I have oft found it so;
And have felt much inclined, as I quarrelled with Fate,
To chuck in the old fellow instead of ground bait.
But, if haply you 'scape from his telescope sight
You will ever be losing some relishing bite
While your gazing around, as he probably might
(Popping upon you unseen), make you jump in a fright.
Now to those men who dare
Fish on Sundays—"Beware,"
I would say; "and take very great care
Lest a fish of great size,
Take you off by surprise,
And before you're aware should effect your demise."
But, a few words to anglers in general, still
I would say, ere my inkstand I close, then my quill
Must return to his duty, and figure away,
And keep humbly a-summing accounts which won't pay:
If a fish should get loose,
Which, p'rhaps, grumblers may choose,
From your line, what's the use,
May I ask, of abuse,
Though it may be the largest has broken away?
Will an oath for a moment persuade it to stay?
You remind me of perch, who, regardless of Fate,
Often bite at a hook though quite guiltless of bait;
So that anglers who angry become when they roam,
Lest their tempers they lose had best leave them at home.
As to low vulgar jests, which some think wit impart,
They appear like the muck which o'erflows a mud cart.
It is strange, though a fact, that a fisherman ever,
Although skilful he be, and remarkably clever,
Will be forced to confess, when by questions he's crossed,
That the largest of fish in its landing was lost.
Yes, 'tis always the best 'mong a number will stray,
Or get lost, let the articles be what they may.
I, in even a buss, have oft proved that 'tis so,
For the prettiest girl would be sure first to go.
But a few moments more
I for patience implore,—
In behalf of your victims I speak;
And would beg when you draw
Them up on to the shore,
You at once for their lifetime would seek.
Still, kind Reader, think not, though it so, p'rhaps, may look,
I'm like Johnson, who wrote out that fine-meaning book,
Who would angling define as a stick and a string,
Which a worm and a fool into close contact bring.
No! The sport I admire, and when the fish will but bite,
'Tis a feeling which almost amounts to delight.
Though a trifling addition will heighten, indeed,
The pleasure, I mean, if some nice girl would read
Out aloud by your side, and would shadow your eyes
From the sun, and away drive the flies
With her neat parasol. I have asked, but must state
I could never persuade one to stick on the bait.
Though some ladies I know who can pull out a fish
With as much skill and science as Walton could wish.
Kind Reader, now, my parting bow
With many thanks I make,
For patience shown; though, overgrown,
Much space the morals take.
Still, I beg to remark, they're not meant for you,
Who have quietly waded their deep meaning through,
But for those who exclaim, "O what humbug! what stuff!"
Who, though not at all wise, find one word quite enough.