About the fish they “caught on the fly,”
Their Sunday-school lessons scorning.
Three fishers lay under the trees at noon,
And “blamed” the whole of the finny race,
For never a nibble touched fly or spoon,
And each sighed as he wet the hole in his face,
For men will fish and men will lie,
And the way they caught trout when nobody’s nigh
Is something to tell—in the morning.
Three fishermen came into town at night,