Charles Cotton - The Angler’s Ballad

Lyrics

Away to the brook All your tackle out look Here's a day that is worth a year's wishing; See that all things be right For 'tis a very spite To want tools when a man goes a-fishing Your rod with tops two For the same will not do If your manner of angling you vary And full will you may think If you troll with a pink One too weak will be apt to miscarry Then basket, neat made By a master in's trade In a belt at your shoulders must dangle; For none e'er was so vain To wear this to disdain Who a true Brother was of the Angle Next, pouch must not fail Stuff'd as full as a mail With wax, crewels, silks, hair, furs and feathers To make several flies For the several skies That shall kill in despite of all weathers The boxes and books For your lines and your hooks And, though not for strict need notwithstanding Your scissors, and your hone To adjust your points on With a net to be sure for your landing All these things being on 'Tis high time we were gone Down, and upward, that all may have pleasure; Till, here meeting at night We shall have the delight To discourse of our fortunes at leisure The day's not too bright And the wind hits us right And all Nature does seem to invite us; We have all things at will For to second our skill As they all did conspire to delight us Or stream now, or still A large pannier will fill Trout and grayling to rise are so willing; I dare venture to say 'Twill be a bloody day And we all shall be weary of killing Away then, away We lose sport by delay But first leave all our sorrows behind us; If misfortune do come We are all gone from home And a-fishing she never can find us The Angler is free From the cares that degree Finds itself with so often tormented; And though we should slay Each a hundred to-day 'Tis a slaughter needs ne'er be repented And though we display All our arts to betray What were made for man's pleasure and diet; Yet both princes and states May, for all our quaint baits Rule themselves and their people in quiet We scratch not our pates Nor repine at the rates Our superiors impose on our living; But do frankly submit Knowing they have more wit In demanding, than we have in giving Whilst quiet we sit We conclude all things fit Acquiescing with hearty submission; For, though simple, we know The soft murmurs will grow At the last into down-right sedition We care not who says And intends it dispraise That an Angler t'a fool is next neighbour; Let him prate, what care we We're as honest as he And so let him take that for his labour We covet no wealth But the blessing of health And that greater good conscience within; Such devotion we bring To our God and our King That from either no offers can win Whilst we sit and fish We do pray as we wish For long life to our King James the Second; Honest Anglers then may Or they've very foul play With the best of good subjects be reckon'd