| 1. I'm sorry they let me go down to the brook, |
| I'm sorry they gave me the line and the hook, |
| And I wish I had stayed at home with my book. |
| I'm sure 'twas no pleasure to see |
| That poor, little, harmless, suffering thing, |
| Silently writhe at the end of the string; |
| Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing |
In torture, and all for me!
|
| 2. 'Twas a beautiful speckled and glossy trout, |
| And when from the water I drew him out |
| On the grassy bank, as he floundered about, |
| It made me shivering cold, |
| To think I had caused so much needless pain; |
| And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain; |
| O! never, as long as I live, again |
May I such a sight behold!
|
| 3. O, what would I give once more to see |
| The brisk little swimmer alive and free, |
| And darting about, as he used to be, |
| Unhurt, in his native brook! |
| 'Tis strange how people can love to play, |
| By taking innocent lives away; |
| I wish I had stayed at home to-day, |
| With sister, and read my book. |
