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But Mr Stoddart gives us likewise an Angler's description of the Tweed in a very sweet and very spirited song.
"Let ither anglers choose their ain,
That steals into its valley fair-
Sae saftly meet and mingle there.
And Manor, wi' its mountain rills,
Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;
And mony a stream o' playfu' speed,
Amang the braes o' bonny Tweed.
Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,
That daunders through the flowery heath,
A' gleamin ower wi' starn and bead;
Below the bields o' bonny Tweed.
A chancier bit ye canna hae,
Ye'd through the whuns and ower the brae,
An' work awa wi' cunnin hand,
Yer birzy heckles, black and reid;
Is meetest music for the Tweed.
O the Tweed! the bonny Tweed!
We are sorry to find that we have little more than a page allowed us for the rest of our article, which, strictly speaking, has been but begun, and would require at least another sheet. We shall therefore return, in our next number, to the "Art of
Angling, as practised in Scotland, by Thomas Tod Stoddart, Esq." Meanwhile we recommend the volume1 (price half-acrown-it is well worth half-a-guinea) to all brethren of the angle as a most amusing and instructive manual—and we advise them to order their copies without delay, if they wish to benefit this season from the wisdom of the experienced sage, for the appearance in Maga of the following two angling songs-among the best ever written-will speedily sell off the edition.
There, as with a pleasant friend,
1 The Angler's Companion to the Rivers and Lochs of Scotland. THOMAS TOD STODDART. Second Edition. With Fishing Map of Scotland, 1853. This work, which has been greatly enlarged and improved since its first appearance in 1835, may be recommended as the best literary vade mecum which the Scottish angler can carry.
A birr! a whirr! the salmon's in,
Hark to the music of the reel!
No birr! no whirr! the salmon's ours,
Hark to the music of the reel!
We listen with devotion;
There's something in that circling wheel
CAST FOURTH-OUR TWO PANNIERS.
Of all climates and countries there are none within any of the zones of Mother Earth that will bear a moment's comparison with those of Scotland. A single proof might suffice -Thomson's Seasons; take another-Burns's Poems. But for a moment forget the people—and think only of the region— its Earth and its Heaven. The lovely Lowlands undulating away into the glorious Highlands-the Spirit of Beauty and the Spirit of Sublimity one and the same, as it blends their being in profoundest union to the Imagination and the Heart! Bury us alive in the dungeon's gloom-incommunicable with the light of day as the grave-it could not seal our eyes to the sight of Scotland. We should see it still by rising or by setting suns-whatever blessed scene we chose to call on would become an instant apparition. Nor in that thick-ribbed vault would our ears be deaf to her rivers and her seas. We should say our prayers to their music-and to the voice of the awful thunder along a hundred hills. Our soul now needs not the Senses. They are waxing dim-but it may brightenlong as the Light of Love is allowed to dwell therein-thence proceeding over Nature like a perpetual Morn.
Vain words! and worse than vain! and obliterated be they by these two or three big plashing tears! Not such the strength of our soul. Day after day we feel more and more sadly that we are of the dust, and that we are obeying its doom. This life is felt to be slowly-too swiftly wheeling away with us down a dim acclivity-man knoweth not into what abyss. And as the shows of this world keep receding backward gaze, on which gathers now the gloom and now the glimmer, of this world hardly would they seem to be,