Meditations by a Despairing Angler.
The Isle of Eels! The Isle of Eels!
Where Mrs. Hopkins dined and sung;
Where first (as this seared heart reveals),
My passion for the Widow sprung!
The pies are good, and so’s the ale—
But all to me is flat and stale!
Where Richmond looks on Teddington,
In patient guise I threw my line;