The Maldon Angling Society Songs and Poetry

HEAVEN
	Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June Dawdling away their war'ry noon) Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish, say, they have their Stream and Pond But is there anything beyond? This life cannot be All, they swear For how unpleasant if it were! One may not doubt that, somehow, good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And, sure, the reverent eye must see A Purpose in Liquidity. We darkly know, by Faith we cry That future is not Wholly Dry. Mud unto Mud! -Death eddies near- Not here the appointed end, not here! But somewhere, beyond, Space and Time, Is wetter water, slimier slime! And there (they trust) there swimmeth One Who swam ere rivers were begun, Immense, of fishy form and mind, Squamous, omnipotent, and kind; And under that Almighty Fin The littlest fish may enter in. Oh! never fly conceals a hook, Fish say, in the Eternal Brook, And more than mundane weeds are there, And mud, celestially fair; Fat caterpillars drift around And paradisal grubs are found; Unfading moths, immortal flies, And the worm that never dies. And in the Heaven of all their wish, There shall be no more land, say fish.
RUPERT BROOK
TO AN OLD FRIEND
	The end draws near again, and very near, The first few fluttered beech leaves fall and gleam- Light skirmishers that dog the dying year- But still I see you down below the weir, A shadow in the stream. Here, when the madcap cuckoo makes his mock And the rathe wild-rose blushed in earliest June, The day the mayfly hatched above the lock- You nearly had it, didn't you, old cock, Save that you stopped too soon? Here have I watched as the dawn spread high Hoping in vain the prejudice or pique That makes you -obviously- reject the fly Would send you hurtling through the startled fry To grab a proffered bleak! Here likewise have my steps at eve been drawn And, the moon mad way behind the wood, (The same old moon that watched the hunting Faun) I've found the lobworm garnered from the lawn Did just as little good! And now the end is near; we part a space You to your mud and I to mine -in town; May Easter find us at the trysting place There where the dancing bubbles spin and race To meet the first March Brown!
PATRICK CHALMERS, Green Days and Blue Days
THE MYTH
	Where the bulrushes grow ranker (Oh, the long green spears a-gleam) There the punt shall rock at anchor In the stream; By the weir's cool curve of thunder, By the stones where wagtails plunder Foolish daddy-long-leg flies, And the strings of rainbow bubbles in a rhapsody arise! Hours may pass and go fleeting, You shall head them not, but stay Lost to them and all the sweeting Of the may; For beneath the swelling current Where the midge-cloud hangs sussurant, And the sweeping swallows go, Lives a most prodigous monster, lurking learnedly and slow! No! I've never really seen him But the boatman tells a tale Of a something (must 'a been 'im) Like a whale, On the shelving shallow showing "Where them kingcups is a-growing" Only just the other night, And the frightened fry went leaping from the presence left and right! But a crafty old curmudgeon He must be, for ne'er a fin Does he move for any gudgeon That you spin; With a wink he maybe watches 'Neath the willow-roots dark notches As you toil with aching wrist, But the landing nets no nearer, nor the deft taxidermist! But the skies are smiling bluely There is a shade along the shore, And the chestnut's litten newly Lamps a score; Drop the rod then and be thankful For the sights that fill the bank full- Verdant reeds and ancient stems And the broad paternal bigness and the peace of Father Thames!
PATRICK CHALMERS, Green Days and Blue Days
POEM
	Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, Where I may see my quill or cork down sink, With eager bite of Perch, or Bleak, or Dace; And on the world and my creator think; Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t'embrace, And others spend their time in base excess Of wine, or worse, in war and wantonness. let them that list these pastimes still pursue, And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill, And I the fields and meadows green may view So daily by fresh rivers walk at will, Among the daisies and the violets blue, Red hyacinth like the morning rays, Pale gander-grass and azure alder-keys.
ISAAK WALTON
THE JOLLY FISHERMAN
	I am a jolly fisherman, I catch what I can get, Still going on my better's plan, All's fish that comes to net. Fish just like men I've often caught, Crabs, gudgeons, Poor-John codfish, And many a time to market brought a dev'lish sight of odd fish; Thus all are fishermen through life, With weary pains and labour, This baits with gold, and that a wife, And all to catch his neighbour. Then praise the jolly fisherman Who takes what he can get, Still going on his better's plan, All's fish that comes to net. The pike, to catch the little fry, extends his greedy jaw, For all the world as you or I have seen the man of law: He who to laziness devotes his time is sure a numb fish, And numbers who give silent votes Are fairly titled dumb fish, False friends to eels we may compare, The roach resembles true ones, Like goldfish we find old ones rare, Plenty as herrings new ones. Then praise the jolly fisherman Who takes what he can get, Still going on his better's plan, All's fish that comes to net. Like fish, then mortals are a trade, And trapped and sold and bought, The old wife and the tender maid, With tickling both are caught, Indeed the fair are caught, 'tis said, If you but throw the line in With maggots, files or something red, or anything that's shining: With small fish you must lie in wait, or those of high condition, But 'tis alone a golden bait, Will catch a learn'd physician. Then praise the jolly fisherman Who takes what he can get, Still going on his better's plan, All's fish that comes to net.
The Edinburgh Musical Miscellany, 1792
A CORNER OF THE MEADOW
	For ever, says the stream, must I Along this sunny pebbled bed Run light and swift and singing by: Here, then, I'll change; a face of dread I here assume, and past this oak I slide in silence and I move From shallow light like a grey smoke To fill a deep and clayey groove, And hence into a deeper pit Where I will nourish a proud shoal Of fishes that shall have the wit To make the angler look a fool; Not brainless, puny, darting things But wise important water-kings That have no time hooks and lines. Their progress on my twilight wave Shall frighten solitary boys, And in my patriarchal cave I'll thunder terror, without noise. The thing was done, the water-hole Lies sullen under cliffs, and claws Of trees bewitched; the bell shall not toll For those whom this Medusa draws; And that far rose-reflection burns On the dusk water far too red- Our altered naiad ever learns Some deadly trick, with eyes of lead.
EDMUND BLUNDEN, The Face of England
THE THREE FISHERS
	Three fishers went sailing away to the west, Away to the west as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
CHARLES KINGSLEY
THE BAIT
	Come live with me, and be my love, And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines, and silver hooks. There will the river whispering run Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun; And there the 'enamour'd fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath, Will amorously to thee swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth, By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both, And if myself have leave to see, I need not their light having thee. Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legs with shells and weeds, Or treacherously poor fish beset, With strangling snare, or windowy net. Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks out-wrest; Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies, Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes. For thee, thou need'st no such deceit, For thou thyself art thine own bait: That fish, that is not catch'd thereby, Alas, is wiser far than I.
JOHN DONNE (1572-1631)
BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS BOOK I, SONG V
	Now as an angler melancholy standing Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook, Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook: Here pulls his line, there throws it in again, Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain, He long stands viewing of the curled stream; At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away, He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway, Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill, Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill; Then all his line he freely yieldeth him, Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud, There underneath the banks, then in the mud, And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal, That each one takes his hide, or starting hole: By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath A willow lies, and pants (if fishes breathe) Wherewith the angler gently pulls him to him, And lest his haste might happen to undo him, Lays down his rod, then takes his line in hand, And by degrees getting the fish to land, Walks to another pool: at length is winner Of such a dish as serves him for his dinner: So when the climber half the way had got, Musing he stood, and busily 'gan plot How (since the mount did always steeper tend) He might with steps secure his journey end. At last (as wand'ring boys to gather nuts) A hooked pole he from a hazel cuts; Now throws it here, then there to take some hold,
WILLIAM BROWNE
AND IF I DID, WHAT THEN?
	"And if I did, what then? Are you aggriev'd therefore? The sea hath fish for every man, And what would you have more?" Thus did my mistress once, Amaze my mind with doubt; And popp'd a question for the nonce To beat my brains about. Whereto I thus replied: "Each fisherman can wish That all the seas at every tide Were his alone to fish. "And so did I (in vain) But since it may not be, Let such fish there as find the gain, And leave the loss for me. "And with such luck and loss I will content myself, Till tides of turning time may toss Such fishers on the shelf. "And when they stick on sands, That every man may see, Then will I laugh and clap my hands, As they do now at me."
GEORGE GASCOIGNE
WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD
	Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe Sailed on a river of crystal light, Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we!" Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe, And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew. The little stars were the herring fish That lived in that beautiful sea "Now cast your nets wherever you wish Never afeard are we"; So cried the stars to the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. All night long their nets they threw To the stars in the twinkling foam Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'T'was all so pretty a sail it seemed As if it could not be, And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod. Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed. So shut your eyes while mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock in the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.
EUGENE FIELD
EXTRACT FROM SWINGIN' ON A STAR
	A fish won't do anything but swim in a brook, He can't write his name or read a book, To fool the people is his only thought, And though he's slippery, he still gets caught.
BURKE/VAN HEUSEN