Close to the rock where the water's deep, and
the wary black bass hides.
There's a strike and a run as the game is
hooked, and his rush with a snub is met,
But he yields at last to the steady strain, and
is brought to the landing net.
As the sun sinks low in the western sky, and
the shadows longer grow,
And the night hawk wheels in his silent flight,
and the crickets draw their bow,