None of your beautiful things that shine—
Tackle so nice and so high in price
That a trout would laugh to be taken twice.
And sing like a Swedish scalder
For a jump at a sign of a thing so fine,
And scorn rough implements such as mine;
Only a line of the commonest twine—
Only a pole of alder!
Wet to the skin in our raiment thin—
Never a word of complaining,