[Sidenote: WEATHER.
The
Weather-Prophet,
foiled,
doth loudly
vow,
[Illustration: _Gentle_ Sport.]
though
wrong before,
I'm sure I've
hit it now;]
To angle o' April! Shame and wicked deed,
Debarr'd, like March, from Anglo-Saxon lad;
Nor May _net_ profit must the fisher heed,
For bad it is, and so it is for-bad!
In these—the _fence_ months—'tis of_fence_: for men
To fish among the spawn were cruel sign:
_John Bull_ should leave his _Hook_, and fishers then
Should be employed in quite another _line_.
'Twere graceless sure to fright the little _fry_
From family peace:—the Mayor, their quiet heeding
The _die_ has cast that _then_ they should not _die_,
Besides 'twould plainly be against _good breeding_!
The Thames is the _Mayor's nest_—a bitter dish
His Lordship gives its spoilers—name of fear;
Why 'tis admitted, even by the fish,
_Diet of Worms_ was never more severe!
He _tackles_ all the fishers: rightly deems
The sink of nets a sink of sin!—for boat,
To ply the angler, _wherry_ wicked seems;
He will not have a single float afloat!
In _March_, upon the Thames, _march_ no man must;
_April_ must heed his _reign_—Invade the spot,
And out of water he'll kick up a dust;
The year says _May_,—but he says you _may not_.
Woe to the mortal who shall _founder_ there!
Let man shun Mansion House, and Lord Mayor's search;
He, like an eagle, sits, with savage stare,
Defying all the world to touch—his _perch_!