'Twas all in vain, with might and main,
He strove to reach the shore;
Down, down he went to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!
The jury gave their verdict that
'Twas nothing else but gin
That caused the fisherman to be
So sadly taken in.
Though one stood out upon a whim,
And said the angler's slaughter—
To be exact about the fact—
Was clearly gin-and-water!
The moral of this mournful tale
To all is plain and clear—
That drinking habits bring a man
Too often to his bier.
And he who scorns to "take the pledge,"
And keep the promise fast,
May be, in spite of fate, a stiff
Cold-water man at last!
THE ANGLER'S CHANT.
By Isaac M'Lellan.
Oh, the shriek of the reel, the trout-fisher's-reel!
No sound is so sweet to the ear;
The hum of the line, the buzz of the wheel!
Where the crystalline brook runs so clear.
Here's a shade on the stream, where the willows bend down,
Where the waters sleep drowsy and dim,
And there where the ripples whirl amber and brown,
The lords of the rivulet swim.
Then fling the light tackle with delicate cast,
Let your fly like a cobweb alight,
A dash and a splash and the victim's fast,
While your reel sings a song of delight.