"O Walker!" sez you, "that's 'is gammon!" No, CHARLIE, it's righteous, dear boy. It's quite true that to chivvy Thames hanglers is jest what we used to enjoy. Rekerlek that old buffer at Richmond, and 'ow we shoved foul of his swim, And lost him a middlin'-sized barbel and set his straw tile on the skim? Hangling isn't my mark, that's a moral, and fishermen mostly is fools; To chaff 'em and tip 'em the kibosh is one of my reglarest rules; And it ain't our sort only as does it, you take the non-anglers all round, An you'll find that in potting the puntist they're 'ARRIES right down to the ground. All our chicest stock-jokes and pet patter they mops up, like mugs as they are, For they _might_ cut their own chaff, eh, CHARLIE? not borrow it all from the bar. But I've seen little toffs in white weskits a slinging _our_ lingo to rights, About colds, and cock-salmons, and shop 'uns; it's one of the rummiest sights. Of course they all trot out SAM JOHNSON; you know the fine crusted old wheeze. I chucked it one day at a cove as lay stretched at the foot of some trees. "Fool at one end and worm at the other?" sez he. "Ah! that's neat, and _so_ new, And as you seem to be worm _and_ fool, one may say 'extremes meet'. Sir, in _you_." 'Owsomever _I_'ve 'ad a day's 'ooking at last, and it wasn't arf bad. You know since I turned Primrose Leaguer I've mixed with the Toppers, my lad; And one on 'em, pal of the Prince, I believe, got JACK JOLTER a pass For some fine preserved waters; no pay, mate, and everythink fixed up fust-class. JACK arsked me and BELL BONSOR to jine him, and seein' it didn't mean tin, And the 'ole thing seemed swell, with good grubbing and lots o' prime lotion chucked in. I was "on" like a shot. BELL'S a bloomer, and JACK, though a bit of a jug, Is too long in the purse to let slip; so the game looked all proper and snug. JACK'S a straw-thatched young joker in gig-lamps, good-natured, and nuts on the sport. He turns up with four rods and two bait-cans, and tackle of every dashed sort. Such rum-looking gimcracks, my pippin; lines coiled up in boxes and books, And live-bait, and worms all a-wriggle, and big ugly bunches of 'ooks. _I_ was a'most afraid to set down, for the things seemed all over the shop, And BELL she kep startin' and squeakin', a-settin' me fair on the 'op; Fust a fish as dabbed flop on her 'at, then a 'ook as got snagged in 'er skirt, It was one blessed squork all the time, mate, though nothink much 'appened to 'urt. Pooty spot; sort o' lake green and windin', with nice quiet "swims" all about. Though I must say _I_ missed the Thames gammocks, the snide comic song, and the shout. No larks at the locks, no collisions, no landings for lotion, you know, And, but for Miss BELL and the bottle, it might a bin jest a bit slow.