So donning quick his Sunday's suit,
He took both rod and line,
And bait for fish--and prog for one,
And eke a flask of wine.

For he was one who loved to live,
And said--"Where'er I roam
I like to feed--and though abroad,
To make myself at home."

Beneath a shady grove of trees
He sat him down to fish,
And having got a cover, he
Long'd much to get a dish.

He cast his line, and watch'd his float,
Slow gliding down the tide;
He saw it sink! he drew it up,
And lo! a fish he spied.

He took the struggling gudgeon off,
And cried--"I likes his looks,
I wish he'd live--but fishes die
Soon as they're--off the hooks!"

At last a dozen more he drew--
(Fine-drawing 'twas to him!)
But day past by--and twilight came,
All objects soon grew dim.