Joys On The Crick

Ol’ “Lizzard Crick” is bottled tight,

     Is corked from shore to shore;

An’ muskrats, turkles, frogs an’ ducks

     Are swimmin’ there no more.

A stillness hovers o’er the place

     Unnatural an’ drear;

All natur’s voice is hushed except

     The ghostly winds appear.

The lid is on the ol’ crick now,

     An’ Gungywamp is sad;

The ice is now twixt hay an’ grass,

     No pleasure to be had.

It is too firm to push a boat

     But won’t bear up our weight;

We wanter fish, an’ we are in

     A most dejected state!

But by an’ by ‘twill thicken up,

     Then ho! Fur spearin’ eels;

You won’t find Gungy men to home

     Except to git their meals.

Some ketchin’ pick’rel in the nooks,

     Some jabbin’ with a pole;

Oh, fishin’ on ol’ “Lizzard Crick”

     Just elervates the soul!

Dec. 17, 1912