Dark is the ever-flowing stream,
And snow falls on the lake;
For now the noontide sunny beam
Scarce pierces bower and brake;
And flood, or envious frost, destroys
A portion of the angler’s joys.
Yet still we’ll talk of sports gone by,
Of triumphs we have won,
Of waters we again shall try,
When sparkling in the sun;
Of favourite haunts, by mead or dell.
Haunts which the fisher loves so well.
Of stately Thames, of gentle Lea,
The merry monarch’s seat;
Of Ditton’s stream, of Avon’s brae,
Or Mitcham’s mild retreat;
Of waters by the meer or mill,
And all that tries the angler’s skill.
_Annals of Sporting._
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