THE SONG OF THE BASS 



When summer nights are hard to bear, 



And dog-days come again ; 

 When fetid grows the city air, 



And fagged the weary brain; 

 Then free ye from the stifled throng, 



With rod and reel away 

 To where bright rivers rush along 



''Mid flash of rainbow spray! 



In limpid lakes the lilies blow, 



Though breathless be the town; 

 On woodland banks wild roses glow, 



And silver thistle-down 

 Caught lightly on the placid stream 



Like goblin craft drift by ; 

 While here and there more subtle gleam 



Intrigues the watchful eye. 



Fresh fern a-plenty for his creel, 



A snack within the shade, 

 A fragrant pipe, a singing reel; 



The angler's day is made! 

 And some the lordly salmon praise, 



And some the lusty trout; 

 To many men are many ways 



Of Jishing, without doubt. 



