And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.

There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North
Adams road,
And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors
reaped and sowed.
He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I
think.
And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and
drink.

Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very
much;
They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers
and such,
But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you
could wish,
He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly
could fish.

The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown
And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped
on the bridge and sat down.
I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of
white,
And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the
Summer night.

And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could
feel