An Old Fly Fishing Poem

Mark well the various seasons of the year,

How the succeeding insect race appear,

In their revolving moon one color reigns,

Which in the next the fickle trout disdains;

Oft have I seen a skillful angler try

The various colors of the treach'rous fly;

When he with fruitless pain hath skimmed the brook,

And the coy fish rejects the skipping hook.

He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,

Which o'er the stream a weaving forest throw;

When if an insect fall (his certain guide)

He gently takes him from the whirling tide;

Examines well his form with curious eyes,

His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns, his size.

Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,

And on the back a speckled feather binds;

So just the colors shine through every part,

That nature seems to live again in art.

- John Gay, in Rural Sports 1720