With a boomerang I could not aim;
A poison blow-pipe would be the same;
A double-barrelled is my desire,
Get out of the way—one, two, three, fire!
A FISHING SONG
THERE was a boy whose name was Phinn,
And he was fond of fishing;
His father could not keep him in,
Nor all his mother’s wishing.
His life’s ambition was to land
A fish of several pound weight;
The chief thing he could understand
Was hooks, or worms for ground-bait.
The worms crept out, the worms crept in,
From every crack and pocket;
He had a worm-box made of tin,
With proper worms to stock it.
HE gave his mind to breeding worms
As much as he was able;
His sister spoke in angry terms
To see them on the table.