And as it drives along it brings such food
As worms, and snails, and all the creeping brood:
To cast a fly is useless-bait is best,
Altho' pot-fishing sportsmen should detest:
Yet, rather than return with sullen brow,
The brandling worm or black-head I allow
Are very good-but if the water clears,
The rising trout the angler's spirit cheers-
Put up a black and orange tipt with gold,
An orange palmer, altho' growing old;
Hare's-ear and yellow, hackled at the breast-
They are the killing flies if rightly drest;
But if with these you cannot stir a trout,
A good black-hackle silver'd round about,
Placed on your foot-link's end, and next to that
The fly called yellow mixt with fur of rat;
The next a fiery brown with partridge breast,
Or red or golden wren, as you think best,
Will kill from mid-day 'till the sun goes down,
When 'tis full time you turn your face to town.
But hark! what noise is that? 'tis from a gun,
The twentieth 'August calls to other fun-
A grouse is down, the trout too hears the noise,
And close among the rocks he torpid lies;
There let him rest until his fright is o'er,
Then try him with another cast once more.
FROM 14TH SEPTEMBER TO 14TH OCTOBER.
Now autumn's hollow blast howls o'er the plain, The farmer from the field draws home his grain; The whist❜ling winds the sickly trees now shake, Down drop their yellow leaves on stream and lake, Like rafts, they carry down the living freight,
The last repast to trout of insect meat.
The insect world is passing swift away,
The fly brown in the morn, at eve turns grey.
Look to the month of March, and recollect
The order of the flies you should select,
Two more 'twere well you add unto that list,
The grouse and woodcock ribb'd with golden twist;
But if the atmosphere continues light,
Throughout October trout at flies will bite;
For as the fly grows scarcer ev'ry day,
The fish more easily become your prey.
Some flies there are, which yet we have to name,
Tho' claiming less of gen'ral rank and fame-
The blue macaw, with purple body tipt,
The hackle black, or red without being clipt-
Some call it Wellington, some Waterloo,
For at that noted time it comes to view.
The snipe and partridge too, afford good flies,
And the grey-plover's hackle we should prize.
Angling now o'er, lay by your rod for good,
In vain you'd tempt the trout with insect food;
For Nature now provides what best agrees
With their soft pregnant state as fit she sees;
And would you Nature's kindly care assist,
Make the fell poacher from his arts desist.
The nets and faggot-lights, and spears by night,
Which devastate the spawning streams, and blight
The angler's hopes, when vernal airs return,
O'er river, lake, and primrose-bordered burn;
When past is winter's stern and frigid reign,
And grove and mead fresh clad, smile forth again;
When Nature's harmonists rejoicing sing
Their praise of HIM who gives renewing spring.
NOTE-As the pleasure and success of the angler depend principally on the goodness and unfading property of the colours composing the dubbing, or bodies, of his flies, the Editor has pleasure in acquainting his readers, that Mr. ETTINGSALL, to whom he is indebted for the foregoing excellent metrical instructions, has discovered a mode of dyeing colours, which, for sparkling brilliancy and retention of their hues, has not yet been equalled.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Publishers have preserved in this, as in the preceding Excursion, the divisions and editorial introductions, as originally published, and which added much to the variety and entertaining character of the composition. This second part contains much and sound instruction relative to lake fishing, and the angler will find (as in the former) a valuable table annexed, showing the several flies, the materials of their formation, and the seasons when they are most effective. We can truly assure the lovers of the piscatory art, that from the sheets to which we allude, he will receive more clear and
efficient information on lake fishing, than from all the volumes that have hitherto been published.
The summer dawn's reflected hue
To purple chang'd Loch-Katrine blue;
Mildly and soft the western breeze
Just kiss'd the lake, just stirred the trees,
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy,
Trembled but dimpled not for joy;
The mountain shadows on her breast,
Were neither broken nor at rest;
In bright uncertainty they lie,
Like future joys to fancy's eye".
"The blackbird and the speckled thrush
Good morrow gave from brake and bush;
In answer cooed the cushat dove,
Her notes of peace, and rest, and love."
SCOTT's Lady of the Lake.
WE should hope that the readers of Mr. Greendrake's Angling Excursion into the County of Wicklow, will not be displeased to renew their acquaintance with this observant Englishman. The second excursion was to the Lakes of Westmeath; and such of our readers as are
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