When Phœbus is bright and young zephyr at rest, I lazily lie on the water’s calm breast; And I think all the time how hot it must be Over there where my master lies under the tree, A shady old elm on the grass-covered ground, Where the wopses and honey-bugs tumble around! I’m a float! I’m a float; and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! When the sky like a friar is shrouded in gray, And winds whistle wild o’er the watery way, I top the white waves, or laugh in great glee, As a ducking I get when they top over _me_. And I think, oh! how jolly my master must feel, With the rain at his back, and the mud at his heel! I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! Sometimes, when the water’s not “soupy” in tint, At the pebbly bottom I take a sly squint; And then, if I see a big scaly’un look With a half-doubting eye at the worm-covered hook, A thrill of excitement runs all down my quill, And, in spite of the water, I try to keep still. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! But then if the scaly ’un goes for that bait, To my master the news in a crack I relate―― Yes!――no!――eh?――bravo?――“bob!”――right under I go! But I’m drawn up again in a minute or so. Slow but sure towards land a forced passage I make, A big golden carp pulling well in my wake! I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! I’m a float! I’m a float! on the deep rolling tide, I rest calmly still or triumphantly ride! I’m the fisherman’s friend, his mark on the stream, No bite I let pass, from roach, perch or bream. So all you gay rodsters, pray treat me with care, For your pleasures and pains I’ll happily share. I’m a float! I’m a float! and I’m fair on the job, If the fishes below only give me a bob! _The Angler’s Journal._ April 3, 1886. ――――:o:―――― OH! DON’T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT? Two parodies of this song were published by Ryle & Co., Monmouth Court, Seven Dials, London, as street ballads. Both were very coarse, one began:―― Now don’t you remember old Alice, Ben Bolt, At the cook-shop a little up town, How she grinned with delight when you gave her the brass, For the pannum you sent rolling down? The other commenced thus:―― Oh! don’t you remember sweet Sal, Harry Holt, Sweet Sally wot lived at the Crown? How she danced all the night, and drank with delight, Just to keep up her fame and renown. ―――― WHEN “BOLT.”