  Pure is HatsÚse mountain-brook— So pure it mirrors all the clouds of heaven; Yet here no fishermen for shelter look When sailing home at even:— 'Tis that there are no sandy reaches, Nor sheltering beaches, Where the frail craft might find some shelt'ring nook. Ah, well-a-day! we have no sandy reaches:— But heed that not; Nor shelving beaches:— But heed that not! Come a-jostling and a-hustling O'er our billows gayly bustling:— Come, all ye boats, and anchor in this spot! Anon. |
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