CAUGHT AT CATCHING.
WEATHER.
The
Weather-Prophet,
foiled,
doth loudly
vow,
Gentle Sport.
though
wrong before,
I'm sure I've
hit it now;
To angle o' April! Shame and wicked deed,
Debarr'd, like March, from Anglo-Saxon lad;
Nor May net profit must the fisher heed,
For bad it is, and so it is for-bad!
In these—the fence months—'tis offence: for men
To fish among the spawn were cruel sign:
John Bull should leave his Hook, and fishers then
Should be employed in quite another line.
'Twere graceless sure to fright the little fry
From family peace:—the Mayor, their quiet heeding
The die has cast that then they should not die,
Besides 'twould plainly be against good breeding!
The Thames is the Mayor's nest—a bitter dish
His Lordship gives its spoilers—name of fear;
Why 'tis admitted, even by the fish,
Diet of Worms was never more severe!
He tackles all the fishers: rightly deems
The sink of nets a sink of sin!—for boat,
To ply the angler, wherry wicked seems;
He will not have a single float afloat!
In March, upon the Thames, march no man must;
April must heed his reign—Invade the spot,
And out of water he'll kick up a dust;
The year says May,—but he says you may not.
Woe to the mortal who shall founder there!
Let man shun Mansion House, and Lord Mayor's search;
He, like an eagle, sits, with savage stare,
Defying all the world to touch—his perch!
MORAL.
Fishers! forego your line for three months' length,
And fence, don't fish, in fence months now; for mind,
Tho' every week the Mayor put out his strength,
If there you are not found you are not fined!
Taking to their Eels. "The Bailiffs are coming, Oh dear! oh dear!"