Fishin’

Sometimes I git ter feelin’ blue,

An’ don’ know hardly what ter do;

My min’ will run on this an’ thet,

My jaws will kiner ope an’ shet,

An' then I’ll wish an’ wish an’ wish,

An’ wish thet I could ketch a fish.

Cuz threw the “winders uv my soul”,

A row uv tiltups I behol’,

All strung erlong the icy Cove,

Where years ergo I yuster rove;

An’ in my vision I kin see

‘Em flop an’ tilt an’ pint et me;

An' on the en’ uv each, I know

There is a pick-rel, – poun’ er so.

An’ then my fingers itch an’ itch,

I wanter pull but don’ know which,

An’ while I’m hessertatin’ roun’

Out frum the kitchen comes a soun’.

My wife, without a fishy look,

Sez, “here my dear’s a silver hook;

Go to the market,” – here’s the dish,

“An’ ketch a little two-poun’ fish.”

An’ thet is all, – my fishin’ streak

Is on the hook fer ‘nother week.

Jan. 14, ‘94

Pub. in Conn.

 Valley Ad.

    Jan. 21,

       ‘94