Classic Poem

The morn was dull when Peter rose;
And stormy, like the north wind blows;
While the dark sky too plainly shows
Ere long there will be rain.
"But still," thinks he; "I'll go in spite;
'Twill sharpen up their appetite,
And make them all the better bite;
Such chance to lose gives pain.
I tarry may a month or more,
Till Christmas comes perchance, before
I shall another day secure;
If so, I'll go again.
Then, with what food he could procure,
He hurried through the Abbey door;
But oft looked back to make quite sure;
His fears were really vain.

Pray, angling reader, was it ne'er your fate,
When fish were biting to be short of bait?
Have you ne'er roked about in terra-firma
To find a grub, a chrysalis, a worm--or
For e'en a grasshopper searched o'er a field
Which would not e'en a caterpillar yield,
While droves of perch, impatient to be hooked,
Have vainly round for some temptation looked?

Now, in such a position was poor Peter placed;
He had flown to the river in very great haste.
Still, although he had sought out a gravelly nook,
But a pair of young gudgeons approached near his hook.
In the space of an hour--so a trimmer he set;
While he tried, though in vain, a few others to get.
"There's a bite! there's a bite! see the reel how it turns!"
He exclaimed, and his face with excitement fierce burns,
"Ah, it now has stopt short! 'tis to pouch it," he thought;
"Look! 'tis running again, and the fellow is caught!"
But, alas! when he struck, to his grief and dismay
He discovered, the jack had his bait torn away.
"O how foolish," he said; "it was of me to throw
That fine gudgeon away! I might guess 'twould be so.
I detest using live bait, you're certain to lose them,
For it seems the fish think they're put to amuse them,
And away he will drag them, or into bits chews them--
Just avoiding the hook, which might stick in their teeth.
Oh, their cunning it really surpasses belief!
One would think they were brought up from birth as a thief.
But I'll try trolling now, as they seem on the feed,
They must swallow the hook if the bait they then heed.
But vain his hope, though time away
Skips fast; the fish admire delay,
And scarce to him attention pay.
Perchance, his want of skill they saw,
And from destruction quick withdraw
To where they may their lives insure.

'Tis but midday, yet darkness shrouds the sky,
For clouds of blackness furiously roll by.
The watery sun has fled, but not to rest--
Behind a cloud which overflows the West--
The distant thunder strikes the list'ning ear,
And streams of lightning pour down far and near.
Yet still dame Nature grasps the slippery rains,
Who, struggling, long to scour the dusty plains.

But all these signs of tempest are forgot
As soon as seen, or p'rhaps are heeded not,
By our friend Peter, for behold his line
Gently unrolls and cleaves a watery mine.
With patient, anxious, fate-imploring look,
He trembling hopes that now his laden hook
May sink low down into the dark abyss,
Midst fishes' entrails, where it cannot miss
Its deadly hold; and where, till life shall fly,
The barbèd hook immoveable may lie.
But, oh! his chicks he counts before they're hatched,
For by his foe, in skill, he's more than matched,
(The scaly monster,) who at length of line,
The close acquaintance sharply does decline.
He tugged, it pulled, but all, alas! was vain,
For one on t'other not an inch could gain.
First Peter, winding, thought his foe waxed faint,
But quickly Jack untwisting--cried, "I aint."
Thus passed an hour, but still he keeps the water,
Though Peter stormed, and vowed he'd give no quarter
When land he reached; but Jack thought all this fun,
And cried "No quarter! I'll 'scape whole or none."
Then the friar, impatient, began to use force,
When his line snapt in two, as a matter of course.

Oh! how then enraged, from his head he tore
The little of hair that his cropped pate bore,
As he flung himself down out of breath to the ground,
And furious raved at each object around.
While such very bad words at the fish he said,
That I'm sure they should never in print be read.
For, pray why should a muse, for amusement who sings,
Fill her kind readers' mouth with another's foul things.
'Tis a fault I lament, so I'll not have a share in
The habit some have of quotation in swearing.
In heavy drops the water now descends;
And earth with sky the darkening torrent blends.
Which soaking through the friar, tries to cool
His anger, and persuade him he's a fool.
"But still," said he; "I will not leave in spite,
Till one I've caught, although the coming night
Shall fling down shadows to obscure my sight;
Here will I stop until they choose to bite."

Then Time rushed past, but unsuccessful still
His firm resolve he tarries to fulfil.
While louder yet the tempest wildly roars,
And drives the torrent o'er surrounding shores.
Whence down, resistless, onward bounding hurls
The bubbling current, and like whirlpool curls.
The frightened fish, too nervous, far, to feed,
Dive down and hide beneath a battered reed.
Yet to measure the stream with his line he persists,
Though his arms they feel sprained, and ache down to the wrists;
And the darkness of night appeared really approaching,
As quick shade after shade on his light came encroaching.

But, wearied now, the rain gives o'er the fight,
Though thundering clouds have not expended quite
Their rumbling yet; and oft the forkèd light
Illumes the stream, which to the friar shows
How high the waters o'er its margin flows.

It is supper-time now, and a fish growing bold,
On the bait as it neared him caught suddenly hold.
How the fisherman grins as the cord outward rolled,
Though he shivers, and all his teeth chatter with cold.
"How it runs! how it runs! like an arrow it flies!
I am certain," he said; "'tis a fish of great size.
For my patience, though late, I shall still gain a prize.
Sure, I think, it down straight
Must have swallowed the bait;
For, of line but a few yards are left.
I must strike, or I fear
They will too, disappear,
And he then may walk off with his theft."
'Twas a capital stroke,
But his top-joint he broke,
So he seizes the line with his hand.
And then works it about,
Till he's tired quite out,
For the fish seems averse to the land.
"Patience, patience!" he said,
Talking inside his head;
"Have you not tried for hours, and have yet taken naught?
Then be patient and wait,
Though it p'rhaps may be late,
Still the fish at the end of your line is half caught."

An hour passed, and every gleam of light
Flies, with the sun afraid of gloomy night.
Yet still our friend is in the selfsame plight,
The fish is lively, though he's wearied quite.
And shakes, not now with cold alone, but fright,
For every tree he fancies is a sprite.
His sport, I fear, is not unmix'd delight.
He once or twice had drawn the line up tight,
And thought by strength to drag the fish out right,
But feared that, p'rhaps, it like the other might
Escape; so slackening, granted a respite
To Jack, who, rushing forth with new delight,
Seemed much astonished at this act polite.

Another hour! and lively as before
The pike appears; while Peter, wearied sore,
With itching fingers longs his fate to try,
Yet dares not stand the hazard of the die.
But with a dash the fish the die has cast,
For through his hand the slippery line ran fast;
And, tangling 'mongst his fingers, drew him close
The rapid stream; which o'er its banks had rose,
A slip, a plunge, headforemost in the tide
He dived; then rising--vainly struggling--tried
To reach the bank; but not a ray of light
Appeared to guide; so deeper in his fright
He sank; while waves fast closing o'er his head,
In murmurings whispered, that all hope had fled.
Then down the stream, still powerful and strong,
The fish his breathless body drags along.

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