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KESWICK BAY.
9
Till it came to Ke-nah-bec Island,
And perish'd by Esquib's hand.
When sunset is bursting in splendour,
And dyeing the west with its glare,
And burning the waters with crimson,
And flashing red darts through the air,
We'll bring our good craft to an anchor
Near a shore where the white birches shine:
Look out! or your rod will be broken,
A black bass is fast on your line!
He plunges and dashes in fury—
Let him have all the line he will take,
Till the landing-net holds him securely—
A four-pounder king of the lake.
And after our basket is heavy,
Sailing back by the light of the moon,
As we round up our yacht at her moorings
We hear the sad call of the loon,
