The Anglican Friar, and the Fish which he Took by Hook and by Crook. active 19th century Novice

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СКАЧАТЬ legend without doubt was true.

      A smatt'ring, too, of facts I've heard

      From folks who never, on my word,

      Have seen the tale, or could have guessed

      That I the manuscript possessed.

      The river, too, in which to-day

      We fished, through forests wends its way,

      And many (if you so desire)

      Can show you where our worthy friar

      In vain his basket tried to fill,

      Not from the want of fish but skill;

      Which place since then has haunted been;

      For oft on dusky nights is seen

      A fisherman, who strives in vain

      Advantage o'er a fish to gain,

      Until you near, when with a scream

      He plunges headlong in the stream.

      This story first in early youth

      I heard, and, lest it might be truth,

      I ne'er the place have ventured nigh

      Until the sun was pretty high.

      But I forget, you do not know

      The tale; but read, and I will show

      You where it is, that you may go

      ('Tis best upon a drizzling night)

      To see this worried angling sprite."

      I rose to leave,—it was a splendid night,

      The rising moon shone beautifully bright,

      And pleased I dwelt upon my homeward walk,

      Which formed the subject of our passing talk;

      But as we parted at the garden-gate

      A groom appearing said, "The horses wait."

      My thoughtful host this pleasure had supplied,

      And greatly I enjoyed the moonlight ride.

      This may indeed (thought I) a sample be

      Of Ireland's pleasing hospitality.

      Ere seeking rest I thought to read

      The tale, but found that much indeed

      Of time and patience it would need,

      Before its pages could defy

      The watchful critic's piercing eye,

      Which seeks and points out ev'ry flaw;

      (Like landladies, when we withdraw

      From sea-side towns, who items tack

      On bills for many a hidden crack,

      Which ev'ry lodger ev'ry year

      Has paid them for, and paid too, dear.)

      In fact, so much had been destroyed

      That really I felt quite annoyed,

      And feared I never could restore

      And make it perfect as before.

      But, quite resolved to do my best,

      I gave my quill but little rest,

      And sketched the outlines in a week;

      When, as I wished with him to speak

      About some parts, I roamed across

      And found him,—not at home, of course,

      Yet waited I quite patiently

      (Although some time he p'rhaps might be),

      And rambled o'er the garden wide

      With fair Rosina by my side.

      At length he came, and truly he

      Seemed pleased my work and self to see.

      "You must have studied soon and late

      To get it in this forward state.

      Those truant flies have never yet,

      I fear, their rightful owner met.

      I thank you greatly for this speed,

      But tell me, will the public read

      A tale like this, if I should choose

      To print it for them to peruse?"

      "Well, really, I can't tell," said I;

      "If it were mine I think I'd try:

      But many parts must altered be

      Before it will from faults be free.

      The satires on the lovely sex

      Some gentle heart will surely vex;

      You ought to rather soften down

      What else will make some fair one frown."

      "Not so," said he; "'tis only those

      Whom the dress fits will wear the clothes,

      For each will on her neighbour try

      The pointed truths the lines supply,

      And all will laugh and much enjoy

      What does not them, but friends, annoy."

      "Then, sir, I would curtail that scene

      In which the Friar feigns a dream;

      The tale he tells is much too long,

      And critics will pronounce it wrong,—

      Too perfect it appears to me

      For an impromptu fib to be."

      "That's exactly the point, my good fellow," he said;

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