SAINT IZAAK AND HIS VOTARIES.
Mr. Punch's Tercentenary Tribute to the Author of "The Compleat Angler."
[August 9th this year is the 300th anniversary of the birth, in the ancient house at Stafford, of Izaak Walton.]
Good Izaak of the diction quaint,
The calendar holds many a fellow
Less worthy to be dubbed a saint
(For gentle heart and wisdom mellow)
Than thou, the Angler's genial guide
By wandering brook and river wide.
"I care not, I, to fish in seas,"
So chirped Will Basse, thy favourite singer,
"Fresh rivers best my mind do please."
Bard-loving quoter, brave back-bringer
Of England's pastoral scenes and songs,
All England's praise to thee belongs.
Thy Book bewitches more than those
Who are sworn "Brothers of the Angle."
Scents of fresh pastures, wilding rose,
All trailing flowers that intertangle
In England's hedgerows, seem to fill
Its pages and our pulses thrill.
We see the stretch "up Totnam Hil,"
Toward the "Thatcht House" that fresh May morning;
We hear Viator praise the skill
That he was first inclined to scorning;
We mark the Master's friendly proffer
Change him to votary from scoffer.
Those "many grave and serious men,"
He chid as "men of sowr complexions,"
If they resist his graphic pen,
His pastorals sweet, his quaint reflections,
Must have indeed mere souls of earth,
To beauty blind, untuned to mirth.
The "poor-rich-men" he pitied so
All Anglers, and wise hearts, must pity.
His song's queer "trollie lollie loe,"
Sounds cheerily as the blackbird's ditty,
To men in populous city pent,
Who know the Angler's calm content.
And even those who know it not,
Nor care—poor innocents!—to know it,
Whom ne'er the Fisher's favoured lot
Has thrilled as sportsman, fired as poet,
May love to turn the leaves, and halt on
The quaint conceits of honest Walton.
The man whose only "quill" 's a pen,
Who keeps no rod and tackle handy,
May hear thy "merry river" when
"It bubbles, dances, and grows sandy."
May sit beneath thy beech, and wish
To catch thy voice, if not thy fish:
May love to sit or stroll with thee,
Amidst the grassy water-meadows;
The culverkeys and cowslips see,
Dancing in summer's lights and shadows;
And watch yon youngster gathering stocks
Of lilies and of lady-smocks:
To hear thy milkmaid, Maudlin, troll
Choice morsels from Kit Marlow sweetly;
And Maudlin's mother,—honest soul,
Whose "golden age" has fled so fleetly!—
Respond with Raleigh's answering rhyme
Of wisdom past its active prime:
To take a draught of sound old ale—
What tipple wholesomer or sweeter?—
At the old ale-house in the vale,
With Corydon and brother Peter;
And share the "Musick"'s mellow bout,
As they at supper shared the trout.
Then to that cleanly room and sweet—
After a gay good night to all—
Lavender scent about the sheet,
And "ballads stuck about the wall,"
And fall on sleep devoid of sorrow,
With fair dreams filled of sport to-morrow.
What wonder Walton's work has charmed
Three centuries? That his bait has captured
The grey recluse, the boy switch-armed,
The sage, the statesman, bard enraptured,
Gay girl—are fish her only spoil?—
And grave Thames-haunting son of toil!
Thy votaries, good Saint Izaak, are
"All who love quietnesse, and vertue."
Is there on whom such praises jar?
Well, join for once—it scarce can hurt you—
In Punch's Tribute; fortune wishing
To gentle souls who "go a-fishing!"
