THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."

Well! I think it is time to put up!

For it does not accord with my notions, Wrist, elbow, and chine, Stiff from throwing the line, To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go, And dip in at each watery dimple; But however I wish To inveigle the fish, To my _gentle_ they will not play _simple_!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish; It would seem that the Bream Must be scarce in the stream, And the _Chub_, tho' it's chubby, be _thinnish_!

Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention, And although at my hook With _attention_ I look, I can ne'er see my hook with a _Tench on_!

At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now; Have they taken advice Of the "_Council of Nice_,"

And rejected their "_Diet of Worms_," now?

In vain my live minnow I spin, Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching; For the gut I have brought, I had better have bought A good _rope_ that was used to _Jack-ketching_!

Not a nibble has ruffled my cork, It is vain in this river to search then; I may wait till it's night, Without any bite And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then!

No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now; Not a Dace have I got, And I fear it is not "Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize To be got in this fresh-water-lottery!

What then can I deem Of so fishless a stream But that 'tis--like St. Mary's--_Ottery_!

For an Eel I have learned how to try, By a method of Walton's own showing-- But a fisherman feels Little prospect of Eels, In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles, Till I'm weary of dipping and casting, And hungry and faint-- Let the Fancy just paint What it is, _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!

And the rain drizzles down very fast, While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell-- So, wet to the skin, I'll e'en back to my inn, Where at least I am sure of a _Bar-bell_!

ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.

"Sweeping our flocks and herds."--DOUGLAS.

O Philanthropic men!-- For this address I need not make apology-- Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology-- Permit me thus to tell, I like your efforts well, For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first, And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts, Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers!

And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds!

As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers; Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle; And save the female sex From being cow'd--like Io--by the cattle!

Fancy,--when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,-- Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop, Taking themselves to Thomson's with a _Fear-on!_

Or, in St. Martin's Lane, Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,-- Fancy the terror of your timid daughters, While rushing souse Into a coffee-house, To find it--Slaughter's!

Or fancy this:-- Walking along the street, some stranger Miss, Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis "Aries Taurus Virgo!"-- You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden!

Think of some poor old crone Treated, just like a penny, with a toss!

At that vile spot now grown So generally known For making a Cow Cross!

Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop--and that an Ox infuriate Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of _Oxy-Muriate!_

Methinks I hear the neighbors that live round The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows-- "'Tis well for you that live apart--unable To hear this brutal Babel, But our _firesides_ are troubled with their _bellows_."

"Folks that too freely sup Must e'en put up With their own troubles if they can't digest; But we must needs regard The case as hard That _others'_ victuals should disturb our rest, That from our sleep _your_ food should start and jump us!

We like, ourselves, a steak, But, Sirs, for pity's sake!

We don't want oxen at our doors to _rump-us!_"

"If we _do_ doze--it really is too bad!

We constantly are roar'd awake or rung, Through bullocks mad That run in all the 'Night Thoughts' of our Young!"

Such are the woes of sleepers--now let's take The woes of those that wish to keep _a Wake!_ O think! when Wombwell gives his annual feasts, Think of these "Bulls of Basan," far from mild ones; Such fierce tame beasts, That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones!

Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf,"

Seeing a red Cow come To swallow her Tom Thumb, And forc'd with broom of birch to keep her off!

Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co., When looking at their public private boxes, To see in the back row Three live sheep's heads, a porker's, and an Ox's!

Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come Through, to accompany the double drum!

Or, in the midst of murder and remorses, Just when the Ghost is certain, A great rent in the curtain, And enter two tall skeletons--of Horses!

Great Philanthropics! pray urge these topics Upon the Solemn Councils of the Nation, Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon, The Bulls, a Bull of Excommunication!

Let the old Fair have fair play, as its right, And to each Show and sight Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude; To Richardson's Stage Dramas, Dio--and Cosmo--ramas, Giants and Indians wild, Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child, And that most rare of Shows--a Show of Gratitude!

A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."--SEA SONG.

As Mister B. and Mistress B.

One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hot-- They heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shot-- For Memory brought a deed to match At Deptford done by night-- Before one eye appeared a Patch, In t'other eye a Blight!

To be belabor'd at of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse hadd both man and dame, He seized the tongs--she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel.

Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer's rat, And then--as white as my cravat-- Poor Mary May, the servant!

Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter, Master and Mistress both flew at her, "Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?"

Till Mary, getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death:--

"We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house. Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs, And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs; 'Mary,' says she to me, 'I say'--and there she stops for coughin, 'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin very often, But please the pigs,'--for that's her way of swearing in a passion, I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin in this fashion!