Those "many grave and serious men," He chid as "men of sowr complexions," If they resist his graphic pen, His pastorals sweet, his quaint reflections, Must have indeed mere souls of earth, To beauty blind, untuned to mirth. The "poor-rich-men" he pitied so All Anglers, and wise hearts, must pity. His song's queer "trollie lollie loe," Sounds cheerily as the blackbird's ditty, To men in populous city pent, Who know the Angler's calm content. And even those who know it not, Nor care--poor innocents!--to know it, Whom ne'er the Fisher's favoured lot Has thrilled as sportsman, fired as poet, May love to turn the leaves, and halt on The quaint conceits of honest WALTON. The man whose only "quill" 's a pen, Who keeps no rod and tackle handy, May hear thy "merry river" when "It bubbles, dances, and grows sandy." May sit beneath thy beech, and wish To catch thy voice, if not thy fish: May love to sit or stroll with thee, Amidst the grassy water-meadows; The culverkeys and cowslips see, Dancing in summer's lights and shadows; And watch yon youngster gathering stocks Of lilies and of lady-smocks: To hear thy milkmaid, MAUDLIN, troll Choice morsels from KIT MARLOW sweetly; And MAUDLIN'S mother,--honest soul, Whose "golden age" has fled so fleetly!-- Respond with RALEIGH'S answering rhyme Of wisdom past its active prime: To take a draught of sound old ale-- What tipple wholesomer or sweeter?-- At the old ale-house in the vale, With CORYDON and brother PETER; And share the "Musick"'s mellow bout, As they at supper shared the trout. Then to that cleanly room and sweet-- After a gay good night to all-- Lavender scent about the sheet, And "ballads stuck about the wall," And fall on sleep devoid of sorrow, With fair dreams filled of sport to-morrow. What wonder WALTON'S work has charmed Three centuries? That his bait has captured The grey recluse, the boy switch-armed, The sage, the statesman, bard enraptured, Gay girl--are fish her only spoil?-- And grave Thames-haunting son of toil! Thy votaries, good Saint IZAAK, are "All who love _quietnesse_, and _vertue_." Is there on whom such praises jar? Well, join for once--it scarce can hurt you-- In _Punch's_ Tribute; fortune wishing To gentle souls who "go a-fishing!" * * * * * [Illustration: GUESSES AT TRUTH. _Mr. Laidislaw._ "HANDSOME WOMAN OUR HOSTESS--DON'T YOU THINK? BY THE BYE, WHAT DO YOU SUPPOSE HER AGE IS?" _Miss St. Cyr._ "WELL, I SHOULD FANCY, WHAT THE ILLUSTRATED BIOGRAPHIES CALL 'PRESENT DAY!'"] * * * * * "HERE'S TO THE CLIENT." Here's to the client who makes his own will, And here's to his friends who dispute it; Here's to the case which is drawn up with skill, And the time that it takes to refute it.