I am, Sir, a brother of the angle.

I am, Sir, a brother of the angle.

The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
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The fisher droppeth his net in the stream,
And a hundred streams are the same as one;
And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream;
And what is it all, when all is done?
The net of the fisher the burden breaks,
And always the dreaming the dreamer wakes.

Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
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Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town.

Oh, the gallant fisher's life,
It is the best of any
'Tis full of pleasure, void of read more

Oh, the gallant fisher's life,
It is the best of any
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis beloved of many.

This dish of meat is too good for any but anglers, or very honest
men.

This dish of meat is too good for any but anglers, or very honest
men.

Can the fish love the fisherman?
[Lat., Piscatorem piscis amare potest?]

Can the fish love the fisherman?
[Lat., Piscatorem piscis amare potest?]

Death is like a fisherman, who, having caught a fish in his net,
leaves it in the water for read more

Death is like a fisherman, who, having caught a fish in his net,
leaves it in the water for a time; the fish continues to swim
about, but all the while the net is round it, and the fishermen
will snatch it out in his own good time.

Oh the brave Fisher's life,
It is the best of any,
'Tis full of pleasure, void of read more

Oh the brave Fisher's life,
It is the best of any,
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis belov'd of many:
Other joys Are but toys;
Only this Lawful is,
For our skill Breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually read more

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of
course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends
think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana
where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not
start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic
half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my
soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a
four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.