GOING A-FISHING.

O tell me,

did

ye ever gae

Upon a summer morn,

While still the dew-drops glittering lay

Upon the tasseled corn,

When all along the merry streams,
And over all the valley,

Where first the morning sunshine beams

And earliest insects rally

The feathery mist-wreaths, here and there,
On bush and coppice clangled,

Or mounted lightly up the air
With quivering diamonds spangled;

O did ye ever saunter out,
Despising pen and books,

To angle for the wary trout

That haunt the little brooks?

If so, you've done, I'm free to say,
A pleasant thing to me;
Albeit the tender-hearted may

Pronounce it cruelty!

C. M. 8.