Not a nibble has ruffled my cork,
It is vain in this river to search then;
I may wait till it's night,
Without any bite
And at _roost-time_ have never a _Perch_ then!

No Roach can I meet with--no Bleak,
Save what in the air is so sharp now;
Not a Dace have I got,
And I fear it is not
"Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now!

Oh! there is not a one-pound prize
To be got in this fresh-water-lottery!
What then can I deem
Of so fishless a stream
But that 'tis--like St. Mary's--_Ottery_!

For an Eel I have learned how to try,
By a method of Walton's own showing--
But a fisherman feels
Little prospect of Eels,
In a path that's devoted to towing!

I have tried all the water for miles,
Till I'm weary of dipping and casting,
And hungry and faint--
Let the Fancy just paint
What it is, _without Fish_, to be _Fasting_!

And the rain drizzles down very fast,
While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell--
So, wet to the skin,
I'll e'en back to my inn,
Where at least I am sure of a _Bar-bell_!

ODE

TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITH-FIELD MARKET.

"Sweeping our flocks and herds."--DOUGLAS.

O Philanthropic men!--
For this address I need not make apology--
Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen,
And planting further off its vile Zoology--
Permit me thus to tell,
I like your efforts well,
For routing that great nest of Hornithology!

Be not dismay'd, although repulsed at first,
And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamb parts,
Charge on!--you shall upon their hornworks burst,
And carry all their _Bull_-warks and their _Ram_-parts.

Go on, ye wholesale drovers!
And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds!
As wild as Tartar-Curds,
That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers;
Off with them all!--those restive brutes, that vex
Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle;
And save the female sex
From being cow'd--like Ioe--by the cattle!

Fancy,--when droves appear on
The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top,--
Your ladies--ready, as they own, to drop,
Taking themselves to Thomson's with a _Fear-on!_

Or, in St. Martin's Lane,
Scared by a Bullock, in a frisky vein,--
Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,
While rushing souse
Into a coffee-house,
To find it--Slaughter's!

Or fancy this:--
Walking along the street, some stranger Miss,
Her head with no such thought of danger laden,
When