Fishing Song: To J. A. Froude And Tom Hughes

    Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
    To point us out this way to glory -
    They're no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
    And all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon!    What's Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?

    So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
    I'll tell you where we think of going,
    To swate and far o'er cliff and scar,
    Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon!    There's a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.

    Geology and botany
    A hundred wonders shall diskiver,
    We'll flog and troll in strid and hole,
    And skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and - Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!

Eversley, 1856

Charles Kingsley

Charles Kingsley was an English writer, historian, and clergyman born on June 12, 1819, in Holne, Devon. He was associated with the Christian Socialist movement and was a friend of prominent figures such as Charles Darwin. Kingsley is best known for his historical novels, including 'Westward Ho!' and 'Hypatia,' as well as his children's book 'The Water-Babies.' His works often explore social issues and aim to contribute to societal reform. Kingsley died on January 23, 1875, in Eversley, Hampshire.

Charles Kingsley

The South Wind: A Fisherman's Blessings

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

Alton Locke's Song

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

A Hope

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

The Longbeards' Saga. A.D. 400

Charles Kingsley, Simple Poetry

English

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Pen-Y-Gwrydd: To Tom Hughes, Esq.

There is no inn in Snowdon which is not awful dear,
Excepting Pen-y-gwrydd (you can't pronounce it, dear),
Which standeth in the meeting of noble valleys three -
One is the vale of Gwynant, so well beloved by me,
One goes to Capel-Curig, and I can't mind its name,
And one it is Llanberris Pass, which all men knows the same;
Between which radiations vast mountains does arise,
As full of tarns as sieves of holes, in which big fish will rise,
That is, just one day in the year, if you be there, my boy,
Just about ten o'clock at night; and then I wish you joy.
Now to this Pen-y-gwrydd inn I purposeth to write,
(Axing the post town out of Froude, for I can't mind it quite),
And to engage a room or two, for let us say a week,
For fear of gents, and Manichees, and reading parties me...

Charles Kingsley

The Auld Fisher

There was an auld fisher, he sat by the wa',
    An' luikit oot ower the sea;
The bairnies war playin, he smil't on them a',
    But the tear stude in his e'e.

            An' it's--oh to win awa, awa!
                An' it's, oh to win awa
Whaur the bairns come hame, an' the wives they bide,
                An' God is the father o' a'!

Jocky an' Jeamy an' Tammy oot there
    A' i' the boatie gaed doon;
An' I'm ower auld to fish ony mair,
    Sae I hinna the chance to droon!

        An' it's--oh to win awa, awa! &c.

An' Jeannie she grat to ease her hert,
    An' she easit hersel awa;
But I'm ower auld for the tears to stert,
    An' sae the sighs maun blaw.

        An' it's--oh to win awa, awa! &c.

George MacDonald

A Song Of The Yorkshire Dales
A song I sing o' t' Yorkshire dales,
That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea;
Frae t' breast o' t' fells, wheer t' cloud-rack sails,
Their becks flow merrily.
Their banks are breet wi' moss an' broom,
An' sweet is t' scent o' t' thyme;
You can hark to t' bees' saft, dreamy soom(1)
I' t' foxglove bells an' t' lime.

Chorus
O! Swawdill's good for horses, an' Wensladill for cheese,
An' Airedill fowk are busy as a bee;
But wheersoe'er I wander,
My owd heart aye grows fonder
O Whardill, wheer I'll lig me down an' dee.

Reet bonny are our dales i' March,
When t' curlews tak to t' moors,
There's ruddy buds on ivery larch,
Primroses don their floors.
But bonnier yet when...
Frederic William Moorman

The Invitation: To Tom Hughes
Come away with me, Tom,
Term and talk are done;
My poor lads are reaping,
Busy every one.
Curates mind the parish,
Sweepers mind the court;
We'll away to Snowdon
For our ten days' sport;
Fish the August evening
Till the eve is past,
Whoop like boys, at pounders
Fairly played and grassed.
When they cease to dimple,
Lunge, and swerve, and leap,
Then up over Siabod,
Choose our nest, and sleep.
Up a thousand feet, Tom,
Round the lion's head,
Find soft stones to leeward
And make up our bed.
Eat our bread and bacon,
Smoke the pipe of peace,
And, ere we be drowsy,
Give our boots a grease.
Homer's heroes did so,
Why not such as we?
What are sheets and servants?
Superfluity!
Pray for wives and children
Sa...
Charles Kingsley

On Ettrick Forest's Mountains Dun
On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun
'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noonday solitude;
By many a cairn and trenched mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where grey-hair'd shepherds tell
That still the fairies love to dwell.

Along the silver streams of Tweed
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;
The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.

'Tis blithe along the midnight tide
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear:
Walter Scott

River Rhymes
1.

We have poled our staunch canoe
Many a boiling torrent through;
Paddling where the eddies drew,
Athwart the roaring flood we flew.

Chorus
Dip your paddles! make them leap,
Where the clear cold waters sweep.
Dip your paddles! steady keep,
Where breaks the rapid down the steep.

2.

Where the wind, like censer, flings
Smoke-spray wider as it swings,
Hark! the aisle of rainbow rings
To falls that hymn the King of kings.

3.

Lifting there our vessel tight,
Climbed we bank and rocky height,
Bore her through thick woods, where light
Fell dappling those green haunts of Night.

4.

O'er the rush of billows hurled,
Where they tossed and leaped and curled,
Past each wave-worn boulder whirle...
John Campbell