His boyhood found the waters clean, His age deplored them, foul with dye; But purple hills, and copses green, And these old towers he wandered by, Still to the simple strains reply Of his pure unrepining reed, Who lies where he was fain to lie, Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed. _The Contented Angler_. THE Angler hath a jolly life Who by the rail runs down, And leaves his business and his wife, And all the din of town. The wind down stream is blowing straight, And nowhere cast can he: Then lo, he doth but sit and wait In kindly company. The miller turns the water off, Or folk be cutting weed, While he doth at misfortune scoff, From every trouble freed. Or else he waiteth for a rise, And ne’er a rise may see; For why, there are not any flies To bear him company. Or, if he mark a rising trout, He straightway is caught up, And then he takes his flasket out, And drinks a rousing cup. Or if a trout he chance to hook, Weeded and broke is he, And then he finds a godly book Instructive company. _Off My Game_. “I’M of my game,” the golfer said, And shook his locks in woe; “My putter never lays me dead, My drives will never go; Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand, Results are still the same, I’m in the burn, I’m in the sand— I’m off my game! “Oh, would that such mishaps might fall On Laidlay or Macfie, That they might toe or heel the ball, And sclaff along like me! Men hurry from me in the street, And execrate my name, Old partners shun me when we meet— I’m off my game! “Why is it that I play at all? Let memory remind me How once I smote upon my ball, And bunkered it—_behind me_. I mostly slice into the whins, And my excuse is lame— It cannot cover half my sins— I’m off my game! “I hate the sight of all my set, I grow morose as Byron; I never loved a brassey yet, And now I hate an iron. My cleek seems merely made to top, My putting’s wild or tame; It’s really time for me to stop— I’m off my game!” _The Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting_. OH blessed be the cart that takes Away my books, my curse, my clog, Blessed the auctioneer who makes Their inefficient catalogue. Blessed the purchasers who pay However little—less were fit— Blessed the rooms, the rainy day, The knock-out and the end of it. For I am weary of the sport, That seemed a while agone so sweet, Of Elzevirs an inch too short, And First Editions—incomplete. Weary of crests and coats of arms, “Attributed to Padeloup” The sham Deromes have lost their charms, The things Le Gascon did not do.