Ye Happy Trouter

‘Tis now adown the gurgling stream

     The trouter creeps along;

With every burden of his heart

     Lost in the brooklet’s song.

The world with all its misery

     He leaves far in the rear;

His home and friends forgotten are

     At this time every year.

The swash against his rubber boots

     Gives every nerve a thrill;

A wet foot on a day like this

     Will never cause a chill.

What tho’ he slips and sits him down

     Where stones are green with slime;

He’s out for trout and naught shall mar

     His joyous outing time.

What though he meets a farmer bold

     With gun and old dog “Tray”,

He pulls a “fiver” from his purse

     And wends his happy way.

There’s naught can swerve him from the thing

     He thinks so very fine;

There’s music in the reel for him,

     And joy in tug of line.

Who wouldn’t be a fisherman

     With all the joy it brings,

And spend a day, all free from care,

     Out where the brooklet sings?

Who wouldn’t whip the streams all day

     With tackle new and light,

And have no plaguey fish to dress

     When he gets home at night!

Jan. 26, ‘07