An' den dey takes an' sots de poles, some place de bank is sof,
An' den dey hunts a shady place, an' settles on de grass,
An' pruz'ntly heahs 'em: "Dat a spade? I has to pass!"
St. Petah wuz a fisherman, an' un'erstood his trade:
He sot an' watched his cork, instid ob lazin' in de shade!
De gemmen isn't copyin' arter him—dey bettah be!—
Or—I's a science fisherman—'t'd do to copy me.
When I goes out a-fishin', I puts on my ol'est clo'es:
(Dey age's putty tol'able, you'd nat'rally suppose!)
I gits up in de moh'nin', long afore de sun is riz,