Beneath a shady grove of trees
He sat him down to fish,
And having got a cover, he
Long’d much to get a dish.

He cast his line, and watch’d his float,
Slow gliding down the tide;
He saw it sink! he drew it up,
And lo! a fish he spied.

He took the struggling gudgeon off,
And cried—­“I likes his looks,
I wish he’d live—­but fishes die
Soon as they’re—­off the hooks!”

At last a dozen more he drew—­
(Fine-drawing ’twas to him!)
But day past by—­and twilight came,
All objects soon grew dim.

“One more!” he cried, “and then I’ll pack,
And homeward trot to sup,”—­
But as he spoke, he heard a tread,
Which caused him to look up.

Poor Timmins trembled as he gazed
Upon the stranger’s face;
For cut purse! robber! all too plain,
His eye could therein trace.

“Them’s werry handsome boots o’ yourn,”
The ruffian smiling cried,
“Jist draw your trotters out—­my pal—­
And we’ll swop tiles, besides.”

“That coat too, is a pretty fit—­
Don’t tremble so—­for I
Von’t rob you of a single fish,
I’ve other fish to fry.”

Poor Timmins was obliged to yield
Hat, coat, and boots—­in short
He was completely stripp’d—­and paid
Most dearly for his “sport.”

And as he homeward went, he sigh’d—­
“Farewell to stream and brook;
O! yes, they’ll catch me there again
A fishing—­with a hook!”

GONE!

Along the banks, at early dawn,
Trudged Nobbs and Nobbs’s son,
With rod and line, resolved that day
Great fishes should be won.

At last they came unto a bridge,
Cried Nobbs, “Oh! this is fine!”
And feeling sure ’twould answer well,
He dropp’d the stream a line.

“We cannot find a fitter place,
If twenty miles we march;
Its very look has fix’d my choice,
So knowing and—­so arch!”

He baited and he cast his line,
When soon, to his delight,
He saw his float bob up and down,
And lo! he had a bite!

“A gudgeon, Tom, I think it is!”
Cried Nobbs, “Here, take the prize;
It weighs a pound—­in its own scales,
I’m quite sure by its size.”

He cast again his baited hook,
And drew another up! 
And cried, “We are in luck to-day,
How glorious we shall sup!”

All in the basket Tommy stow’d
The piscatory spoil;
Says Nobbs, “We’ve netted two at least,
Albeit we’ve no toil.”

Amazed at his own luck, he threw
The tempting bait again,
And presently a nibble had—­
A bite! he pull’d amain!

His rod beneath the fish’s weight
Now bent just like a bow,
“What’s this?” cried Nobbs; his son replied,
“A salmon, ’tis, I know.”

And sure enough a monstrous perch,
Of six or seven pounds,
He from the water drew, whose bulk
Both dad and son confounds.