Don't ye talk to me of work!
I'm jest goin' fishin'
Where the speckled beauties lurk,
Round the pools a-swishin'.
Ne'er a thought have I of care,
Settin' on a green bank there,
Drinkin' in the soft June air,
Void of all ambition!

I don't care much what I ketch,
Long as I am anglin'.
What I carry, what I fetch,
On my string a-danglin'.
Makes no difference to me—
Some or none, whiche'er it be—
While I'm off there wholly free
From all scenes of wranglin'.

Fishin' ain't jest ketchin' fish
In a pond or river—
Though a fresh trout on a dish
Makes ye sort o' shiver—
Fishin's settin' on some spot
Where it's neither cold ner hot,
Without thinkin' on your lot—
Fortune, love, or liver.

Fishin's gettin' far away
From all noise and flurry;
Gettin' off where you can play
Nothin's in a hurry;
There to sort o' loaf, and set,
Blind to all the things that fret,
And forgettin' all regret,
Quarrils, cares, and worry.

Yessir! I'll give up ambition,
And fer fame and fortune wishin'
And day to go a-fishin'!