A MANY men there be that go,
Free footed, wandering to and fro
Athwart God's open, sun-kissed ways,
Their hearts o'erbrimmmg with the praise
Of all the wilding things that are
Beneath the steadfast sun and star;
And foremost of this roving clan
I love the ardent fisherman!

He carries still within his breast
An incommunicable zest,
A fervor that may never tire,
A flame unwavering, a desire
Unquenchable as is the dawn,
That leads him on and ever on;
And though he's fain of spoil, at root
His primal passion is pursuit!

His pulses throb and thrill to feel
The vibrant whirring of his reel;
Elation fills him when he spies
Upon his line the gleaming prize;
Yet when the sunset embers burn
Low in the twilight's purple urn,
And he has no reward to show,
Is he dark-browed and doleful? No!

Another day, another hour,
Fortune may yield her shining shower!
Still in his bosom bides the lure
As fixed as is the cynosure.
It is the striving, not the gain,
That lifts us to the loftiest plane;
The quest, although we miss the goal,
That stays the fibre of the soul!

And so, whate'er his class or clan,
I love the ardent fisherman!