Bobbin’ Fur Eels On “Lizzard Crick”

It ain’t the kind o’ fishin’ ‘at the city fellers like

Where they troll fur trout or salmon an’ they git a likely strike;

Where they play ‘em fur the science an’ the pleasure thet they git,

An’ they photygraph the victim when he comes frum out the wet.

No, it ain’t no kind o’ fishin’ thet the sportsmen wanter do,

‘Cuz it’s rough an’ rther messy, an’ it’s pluggin’ through an’ through;

But there ain’t no kind uv fishin’ thet a Gungy feller feels

Thet equals settin’ on the Crick an’ bobbin’ there fur eels.

Big eels, small eels

      Grabbin’ holt the bait;

Light eels, dark eels

      Four pounds in weight.

Draw ‘em mighty keeful

      Don’t let ‘em hit their heels;

Don’t keer fur any fishin’

      ‘Cept bib fur eels!

O, you take a summer evenin’ when the tide is comin’ slack,

An’ you anchor side the channel where the water’s deep an’ black,

An' you drop your worm-bob over where the eels are runnin’ thick,

You will git some lively bitin’ an’ you’ll git it purty quick.

You don’t hev to set with patience like you hev to wait fur trout,

Say an hour or two uv cussin’ an’ then never pull one out.

You kin flop ‘em in your dory, you kin bury up your heels

You kin smoke an’ tell your stories while you fill your boat with eels!

Fried eel, baked eels,

      Eels in chowder fine;

Roast eels, scalloped eels

      Any old design.

Eels for breakfus’, dinner,

      How good a feller feels;

Don’t care what fish you give us

      So longs it’s eels!

May 27, 1911