ANGLICAN FRIAR,

As a preface in verse

Is perhaps the reverse

Of the common and so vulgar way,

It is thus I intend

Introducing my friend,

Who would fain his respects to you pay.

Of the place of his birth,

Though some snug spot on earth,

I ne'er heard, so can't tell;

Though I guess that the rogue,

From his twang of the brogue,

Did in Old Erin dwell.

But if not, it was surely some queer Irishman

Who related the tale. I've tried all that I can

To gain further partic'lars, which p'raps might amuse,

But I naught could fish out—ev'ry bait proved no use.

Still I'll pause to explain

(It may p'rhaps entertain),

How at first I acquainted became

With the facts I relate,

Which, with truth I may state,

Occurred at some long bygone date.

You must know that I love,

All amusements above,

To arise ere the sun

Has his day's work begun,

And roam to some river,

Who'll kindly deliver

Up his subjects to fate

For a little ground bait.

Oh! how often my slumbering dreams have been broke

By the thought I'm too late, and I've suddenly woke

To discover 'twas dark, and have dozed off again;

But the dose to repeat, hope for rest being vain.

I in fancy have fished in most curious places—

Down a coal-hole, in areas, and off cellar bases;

Where the queerest of things you can name I have caught, or

As I dropt down my line, has retreated the water.

Now that angling's a passion to me appears plain,

Which amounts to disease if a tight hold it gain;

It may oft be relieved by right treatment, perhaps,

But then, sooner or later, there's sure a relapse.

Standing out a whole day, from its dawn until night,

In a good drenching rain, without even a bite,

Is a capital thing for just cooling the brain,

Though time still will revive—and it warms up again.

It is contagious, too, for a brother it caught,

As he slept in a room where my tackle was brought;

He was up with the lark, and my top joint had broke

Ere the 'larum had rung, which the family woke.

Let me see, it is now about five years ago,

When, admiring the Irish and blarney,

I packed up all my traps, and my tackle also,

And set sail for the banks of Killarney.

I had heard of the lovely and beautiful views

Which adorned the fair Emerald Isle;

So as long as I'd time I resolved to roam through,

And admire what had made Nature smile.

My feelings, as the sea I crossed,

Are distant from the tale;

Suffice it that I suffered loss—

'Twas not a pleasant sail.

My rising thoughts unable to control,

I drowned my sorrows in the waves that roll;

The sickly waves a tribute would demand,

Nor gave me rest till I obeyed command.

With much delight I traversed o'er

The land of Pats and praties,

And mourned to note from what I saw

That indolence their fate is.

A pipe stuck easy in their mouth

For mind and body food is;

Their dress, I must say, is uncouth,

For it next door to nude is....

I'm speaking of the lower sort,

Not so bad are their betters;

Though some, who wealth find ready wrought,

Rest in luxurious fetters.