All hoping to fish up a tank-full;
They hopelessly ruin their shoes and their socks—
O, why can't they rest and be thankful?
They rave o'er a winkle, a wrass, or a wray,
And sea-weeds that with them commingle—
But let me throw stones in the water all day
And roll on the sand and the shingle!
They fancy 'tis pleasant to go for a sail
With wind in a dubious quarter;
When waves "chop about," and they get very pale,