I am breaking my heart that so soon we must part,

But what happens is often the best,

For after this season I'm sure there's good reason
For giving our horses a rest.

You can hear the call of the final horn,

So why should we still remain,

You have heard my song which is far too long,

Farewell, till we meet again.

Heaven knows where we shall go, dear boys,

And the deuce knows what we shall do,

Till we're back once more at the old sport, our own sport, the grand sport,

Till the time comes again, as it will, dear boys, for the sport

that is always new.

VARIOUS

Saint Patrick

No doubt, St. Patrick was an Angler
Of credit and renown, Sir,
And many a shining trout he caught,
Ere he built Dublin town, Sir.

Old story says, (it tells no lies)

He fish'd with bait and line, Sir,

At every throw he had a bite,

Which tugg'd and shook the twine, Sir.

In troubled streams he lov'd to fish,
Then salmon could not see, Sir,
The trout, and eels, and also pike,
Were under this decree, Sir,

And this, perhaps, may solve a point,
With other learn'd matters, Sir,
Why Irishmen still love to fish

Among troubled waters, Sir.

Some likewise say, and even sware,
He was a godly saint, Sir,

And made loose fish' for all the land,

And trout as red as paint, Sir.

And as a relic of his power,

It was his ardent wish, Sir,

That dear old Erin should always have,

A number of odd fish,' Sir.

Written at Trinity College, Dublin, 1810 From The Angler's Song Book. Compiled and edited by

ROBERT BLAKEY.

1855.

Heredity

Treat children's sport with laughter,
Or, if you will, with tears;
Such joy comes not hereafter,
Through all our later years.
We scarcely now can measure
By backward cast of thought,
The ecstasy of pleasure

Crushed from the lees of sport.

Though years may rend in sunder-
And what will time not rend?-
The bright thin line of wonder,
With mystery at the end;
Yet passion's quenchless ember
Is with us even yet;

Through children we remember
What else we might forget.

We watch the eager glances
By keen expectance cast,
To where the light float dances
In every playful blast.
Below, what hidden treasure
May now be hovering near,
Pausing, to add to pleasure

A spice of groundless fear.

See how the forms so soundless
Now quicken into life.

Hope pours forth measure boundless

On the approaching strife,

Ah, should that rod dismember,

What sorrow and regret

"Twill be but to remember,

Yet harder to forget.

Now from those hidden places

The carp's soft well-loved home-

Watched for by eager faces

At last he has to roam.

In vain his fits of leisure,

In vain his angry strain,

For, through the gills of pleasure

Has passed the hook of pain,

Fain would he now unbidden
Return the tempting bait,
In which was deftly hidden
The deadly barb of Fate.
He'll fast till next December
Should he escape the net,
Or, anyway remember
Until he shall forget.

Each tug of consternation
Gives zest to careful play,
When eager expectation
Is held in caution's sway.
But any violent measure,
Or any sudden strain,

Might change the foam of pleasure
To froth of fretful pain.

Now is the battle ending,

And firmness skill must take,
For though the rod is bending
It will not lightly break.
Children can scarcely measure
The strength of line as yet,
And by each loss remember
The fish they failed to get.

The net is waiting ready
Its prize to safely fold,

Keep eye and hand both steady,
Nor slacken now your hold.
Grant but a scanty measure
Of line, lest he regain
His earlier flower of pleasure,
Your latter leaf of pain.

'Tis done. Among the rushes
His glittering body lies,
Excitement throbs in blushes,
Light dances in the eyes.

I feel the dying ember

Of sport burns in me yet.

What childhood's days remember

Age scarcely will forget.

From a MS. No date, but evidently after one of Swinburne's Ballads.