Three mothers waited outside the gate.
Three little fishers, tired, sunburnt, and worn,
Came into sight as the evening grew late,
Their chubby feet bleeding, their clothing all torn,
For "boys will be boys"—have a keen eye for fun,
While mothers fret, fume, scold, and—succumb,
And welcome them home in the gloaming.
Three little fishers were called to explain—
Each stood condemned, with his thumb in his eye,
They promised never to do so again,