R
Ron 'The Hat' Clay (ACA)
Guest
Some of the great poets and writers of the past have put succinctly in words, why we go fishing. The philosophy, the passion and the true delight of our pastime.
Let's hear from you all on this subject. I will start by quoting a few words that may not apply just to fishing, but for anything connected to the great outdoors.
I love these words:
"And the bush has friends to greet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city,
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness overall.
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street;
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurriiying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash book and the journal-
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
From "Clancy of The Overflow" - Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson
Let's hear from you all on this subject. I will start by quoting a few words that may not apply just to fishing, but for anything connected to the great outdoors.
I love these words:
"And the bush has friends to greet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city,
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness overall.
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street;
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.
And the hurriiying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash book and the journal-
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
From "Clancy of The Overflow" - Andrew Barton (Banjo) Paterson
