O ENGLISH GIRL

BY AUSTIN DOBSON

To you I sing, whom towns immure,
And bonds of toil hold fast and sure ;-
To you across whose aching sight
Come woodlands bathed in April light,
And dreams of pastime premature.

And you, O Sad, who still endure
Some wound that only Time can cure,—
To you, in watches of the night,—
To you I sing!

But most to you with eyelids pure,
Scarce witting yet of love or lure ;-
To you, with bird-like glances bright,
Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight ;-
O English Girl, divine, demure,

To you I sing!

THE TRENT

MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631)

NEAR to the silver Trent

Sirena dwelleth,

She to whom nature lent

All that excelleth ;

By which the Muses late,

And the neat Graces,

Have for their greater state
Taken their places;

Twisting an anadem,

Wherewith to crown her,

As it belonged to them

Most to renown her.

CHORUS. On thy bank
In a rank

Let thy swans sing her,

And with their music

Along let them bring her.

Oft have I seen the sun,
To do her honour,

Fix himself at his noon
To look upon her,

And hath gilt every grove,
Every hill near her,

With his flames from above,
Striving to cheer her :

And when she from his sight
Hath herself turnéd,

He, as it had been night,

In clouds hath mournéd.

The verdant meads are seen,

When she doth view them,

In fresh and gallant green

And

Strait to renew them,

every little grass

Broad itself spreadeth,

Proud that this bonny lass

Upon it treadeth :

Nor flower is so sweet

But it

In this large cincture,

upon her feet

Leaveth some tincture.

Fair Dove and Darwent clear,

Boast ye your beauties,

To Trent your mistress here
Yet pay your duties.

My love was higher born

Towards the full fountains,

Yet she doth moorland scorn

And the Peak mountains;

Nor would she none should dream
Where she abideth,

Humble as is the stream

Which by her slideth.

Yet my poor rustic Muse,
Nothing can move her,

Nor the means I can use,
Though her true lover:

Many a long winter's night
Have I waked for her,

Yet this my piteous plight
Nothing can stir her.

All thy sands, silver Trent,
Down to the Humber,

The sighs that I have spent

Never can number.

CHORUS. On thy bank

In a rank

Let thy swans sing her,

And with their music

Along let them bring her.

A

To me the opportunity for fishing came early, and the passion for it awoke suddenly. I remember very well being seized with the desire to fish. I was about seven years old, and was riding on a Shetland pony by the side of a very small burn. mill was working higher up the stream, and the water was full of life and agitation, caused by the opening of the sluice of the mill pond above. I had seen small trout caught in the burn before, but now, for the first time and suddenly, came an overpowering desire to fish, which gave no rest till some very primitive tackle was given me. With this and some worms, many afternoons were spent in vain. The impulse to see the trout destroyed all chance of success. It did not suit me to believe that it was fatal to look into the water before dropping a worm over the bank, or that I could not see the trout first and catch them afterwards, and I preferred to learn by experience and disappointment rather than by the short, but unconvincing, method of believing what I was told.

Very wonderful is the perspective of childhood, which can make a small burn seem greater than rivers in after life. There was one burn which I knew intimately from its source to the sea. Much

of the upper part was wooded, and it was stony and shallow, till within two miles of its mouth. Here there was for a child another world. There were no trees, the bottom of the burn was of mud or sand, and the channel was full of rustling reeds, with open pools of some depth at intervals. These pools had a fascination for me, there was something about them which kept me excited with expectation of great events, as I lay behind the reeds, peering through them, and watching the line intently. The result of much waiting was generally an eel, or a small flat fish up from the sea; or now and then a small trout, but never for many years one of the monsters which I was sure must inhabit such mysterious pools. At last one evening something heavy really did take the worm. The fish kept deep, played round and round the pool and could not be seen, but I remember shouting to a companion at a little distance, that I had hooked a trout of one pound, and being conscious from the tone of his reply that he didn't in the least believe me, for a trout of one pound was in those days our very utmost limit of legitimate expectation. There was a mill pond higher up in which such a weight had been attained, and we who fished the burn could talk of trout of that size, and yet feel that we were speaking like anglers of this world. this fish turned out to be heavier even than one pound, and when at last he came up from the depth into my view, I felt that the great moment had come which was to make or mar my happiness for ever. I got into the shallow water below the fish, and after great anxieties secured with the help

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