OF all the World's Enjoyments,
That ever valu'd were;
There's none of our Employments,
With Fishing can Compare:
Some Preach, some Write,
Some Swear, some Fight,
All Golden Lucre courting,
But Fishing still bears off the Bell;
For Profit or for Sporting.
Then who a Jolly Fisherman, a Fisherman will be? His Throat must wet, Just like his Net, To keep out Cold at Sea.
The Country Squire loves Running,
A Pack of well-mouth'd Hounds;
Another fancies Gunning
For wild Ducks in his Grounds:
This Hunts, that Fowls,
This Hawks, Dick Bowls,
No greater Pleasure wishing,
But Tom that tells what Sport excells,
Gives all the Praise to Fishing,
Then who, &c.
A good Westphalia Gammon,
Is counted dainty Fare;
But what is't to a Salmon,
Just taken from the Ware:
Wheat Ears and Quailes,
Cocks, Snipes, and Rayles;
Are priz'd while Season's lasting,
But all must stoop to Crawfish Soop,
Or I've no skill in tasting.
Then who, &c.
Keen Hunters always take too
Their prey with too much pains;
Nay often break a Neck too,
A Pennance for no Brains:
Page:Songs compleat, pleasant and divertive (Wit and mirth or, Pills to purge melancholy).djvu/286
This page needs to be proofread.