The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 75

"A-HUNTING WE WILL GO"

From "Don Quixote in England"

The dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn; The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn.

And a-hunting we will go.

The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay; "My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; You cannot hunt to-day."

Yet a-hunting we will go.

Away they fly to 'scape the rout, Their steeds they soundly switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, And some thrown in the ditch.

Yet a-hunting we will go.

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail.

Then a-hunting we will go.

Fond Echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry; The woods, the hills, the sound retort, And music fills the sky, When a-hunting we do go.

At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night.

And a-drinking we do go.

Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace, When a-hunting we do go.

Henry Fielding [1707-1754]

THE ANGLER'S INVITATION

Come when the leaf comes, angle with me, Come when the bee hums over the lea, Come with the wild flowers-- Come with the wild showers-- Come when the singing bird calleth for thee!

Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie, Where the gray trout glide silently by, Or in some still place Over the hill face Hurrying onward, drop the light fly.

Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed To our own loved walls down on the mead, There, by the bright hearth, Holding our night mirth, We'll drink to sweet friends.h.i.+p in need and in deed.

Thomas Tod Stoddart [1810-1880]

THE ANGLER'S WISH From "The Complete Angler"

I in these flowery mends would be, These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love;

Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind Breathe health and plenty; please my mind, To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers; Here, hear my Kenna sing a song: There, see a blackbird feed her young,

Or a laverock build her nest; Here, give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love: Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice;

Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook; There sit by him, and eat my meat; There see the sun both rise and set; There bid good morning to next day; There meditate my time away; And angle on; and beg to have A quiet pa.s.sage to a welcome grave.

Izaak Walton [1593-1683]

THE ANGLER In "The Complete Angler"

O the gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any!

'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, And 'tis beloved by many; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure.

In a morning, up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping; Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping; Then we go To and fro, With our knacks At our backs, To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure.

When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation, Where, in a brook, With a hook,-- Or a lake,-- Fish we take; There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle.

We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too; None do here Use to swear: Oaths do fray Fish away; We sit still, Watch our quill: Fishers must not wrangle.

If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter; Where, in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging; We are still contented.

Or we sometimes pa.s.s an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath; Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented.

John Chalkhill [fl. 1648]

WANDERl.u.s.t

TO JANE: THE INVITATION

Best and Brightest, come away!

Fairer far than this fair day, Which, like thee, to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake.

The brightest hour of unborn Spring Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon morn To h.o.a.r February born; Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May Strewed flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.

Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs-- To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music, lest it should not find An echo in another's mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart.