Classic Poem

My various fleets for fowl, O who is he can tell
The species that in me for multitudes excel!
The duck and mallard first, the falconer's only sport
(Of river-flights the chief, so that all other sort
They only green-fowl term), in every mere abound,
That you would think they sat upon the very ground,
Their numbers be so great, the waters covering quite,
That raised, the spacious air is darkened with their flight;
Yet still the dangerous dykes from shot do them secure,
Where they from flash to flash like the full epicure
Waft, as they loved to change their diet every meal;
And near to them ye see the lesser dibbling teal
In bunches with the first that fly from mere to mere,
As they above the rest were lords of earth and air.
The goosander with them my goodly fens do show,
His head as ebon black, the rest as white as snow,
With whom the wigeon goes, the goldeneye, the smeath,
And in odd scatt'red pits, the flags and reeds beneath,
The coot, bald, else clean black, that whiteness it doth bear
Upon the forehead starred, the water-hen doth wear
Upon her little tail in one small feather set.
The water-woosel next, all over black as jet,
With various colours, black, green, blue, red, russet, white,
Do yield the gazing eye as variable delight
As do those sundry fowls whose several plumes they be.
The diving dabchick here among the rest you see,
Now up, now down again, that hard it is to prove
Whether under water most it liveth, or above:
With which last little fowl (that water may not lack,
More than the dabchick doth, and more doth love the brack)
The puffin we compare, which coming to the dish
Nice palates hardly judge if it be flesh or fish.
But wherefore should I stand upon such toys as these,
That have so goodly fowls the wand'ring eye to please.
Here in my vaster pools, as white as snow or milk
(In water black as Styx) swims the wild swan, the elk,
Of Hollanders so termed, no niggard of his breath
(As poets say of swans which only sing in death)
But oft as other birds is heard his tunes to rote,
Which like a trumpet comes from his long archid throat,
And towards this wat'ry kind, about the flash's brim,
Some cloven-footed are, by nature not to swim.
There stalks the stately crane as though he marched in war,
By him that hath the hern which by the fishy carr
Can fetch with their long necks out of the rush and reed,
Snigs, fry, and yellow frogs, whereon they often feed:
And under them again (that water never take,
But by some ditch's side or little shallow lake
Lie dabbling night and day) the palate-pleasing snite,
The bidcock, and like them the redshank, that delight
Together still to be in some small reedy bed,
In which these little fowls in summer's time were bred.
The buzzing bitter sits, which through his hollow bill
A sudden bellowing sends, which many times doth fill
The neighbouring marsh with noise as though a bull did roar;
But scarcely have I yet recited half my store:
And with my wondrous flocks of wild geese come I then,
Which look as though alone they peopled all the fen,
Which here in winter time when all is overflowed,
And want of solid sward enforceth them abroad,
Th'abundance then is seen that my full fens do yield,
That almost through the isle do pester every field.
The barnacles with them which, wheresoe'er they breed,
On trees or rotten ships, yet to my fens for feed
Continually they come and chief abode do make,
And very hardly forced my plenty to forsake:
Who almost all this kind do challenge as mine own,
Whose like I dare aver is elsewhere hardly known.
For sure unless in me no one yet ever saw
The multitudes of fowl in mooting time they draw:
From which to many a one much profit doth accrue.
Now such as flying feed, next these I must pursue;
The seamew, sea-pie, gull, and curlew here do keep,
As searching every shoal and watching every deep,
To find the floating fry with their sharp-piercing sight,
Which suddenly they take by stooping from their height.
The cormorant then comes (by his devouring kind)
Which flying o'er the fen immediately doth find
The fleet best stored of fish, when from his wings at full,
As though he shot himself into the thick'ned skull,
He under water goes and so the shoal pursues,
Which into creeks do fly, when quickly he doth choose
The fin that likes him best, and rising, flying feeds.
The osprey oft here seen, though seldom here it breeds,
Which over them the fish no sooner do espy,
But (betwixt him and them, by an antipathy)
Turning their bellies up, as though their death they saw,
They at his pleasure lie to stuff his glutt'nous maw.