THE COLD-WATER MAN.
It was an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well;
And he lived by a little pond,
Within a little dell.
A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his hook and rod;
So even ran his line of life
His neighbors thought it odd.
For science and for books, he said
He never had a wish;
No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a school of fish.
In short, this honest fisherman,
All other tools forsook;
And though no vagrant man was he,
He lived by hook and crook.
He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth,
Nor cared about a name;
For though much famed for fish was he,
He never fished for fame!
To charm the fish he never spoke,
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way
Was just to drop a line!
And many a gudgeon of the pond,
If they could speak to-day,
Would own, with grief, the angler had
A mighty taking way!
One day, while fishing on a log,
He mourned his want of luck,—
When suddenly, he felt a bite,
And jerking—caught a duck!
Alas! that day this fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He could n't keep the log!