Classic Poem

I CARE not much how folks prefer
To dress your Chubb or Chavender;
I care no whit for line or hook,
But still I love old I ZAAK 's book,
Wherein a man may read at ease
Of — gandergrass — and — culverkeys, —
Or with half-pitying wonder, note
What Topsell , what Du Bartas wrote,
Or list the song, by Maudlin sung,
That Marlowe made when he was young: —
These things, in truth, delight me more
Than all old I ZAAK 's angling lore.

These were his Secret . What care I
How men concoct the Hawthorn-fly,
Who could as soon — stroke Syllabub —
As catch your Chavender or Chubb;
And might not, in ten years, arrive
At baiting hooks with frogs, alive! —
But still I love old I ZAAK 's page,
Old I ZAAK 's simple Golden Age ,
Where blackbirds flute from ev'ry bough,
Where lasses — milk the sand-red cow, —
Where lads are — sturdy foot-ball swains, —
And nought but soft — May-butter — rains;
Where you may breathe untainted air
Either at Hodsden or at Ware;
And sing, or slumber, or look wise
Till Phoebus sink adown the skies;
Then, laying rod and tackle by,
Choose out some — cleanly Alehouse — nigh,
With ballads — stuck about the wall, —
Of Joan of France or English Mall —
With sheets that smell of lavender —
There eat your Chubb (or Chavender ).
And keep old I ZAAK'S honest laws
For — mirth that no repenting draws — —
To wit, a friendly stave or so,
That goes to Heigh-trolollie-loe,
Or, more to make the ale-can pass,
A hunting song of William Basse —
Then talk of fish and fishy diet,
And dream you — — Study to be quiet. —