Oh, to-morrow will be Friday, so we’ll fish the stream to-day!
Benedicite!”
So down they sate by the river’s brim,
And fish’d till the light was growing dim;
They fish’d the stream till the moon was high,
But never a fish came wand’ring by.
They fish’d the stream in the bright moonshine,
But not one fish would he come to dine.
And the Abbot said, “It seems to me
These rascally fish are all gone to sea.