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A WARM MAN FISHING.
The river runs muddy to day The hooks are baited with lobs ;
We'll take the fish home in a chai'— But mark yonder float, sure it hobs I
A fish is most certainly look,
I'll draw it with speed to the shore ;
And when I've baited the hook, I'll cast it, and wait for one more.
O, death to my hopes!—'twas a weed !
Ah ! why did they plant their weeds thei It is so provoking indeed !
But hope is the balm of all care.
I hold till my tir'd elbows ache ;
I gaze till my eye-sight swims round— Some short relaxation to take,
I sticks my rod into the ground.
While I ponder on credit and cash, And the joys of next settling day,
The rod tumbles in with a splash ! And sails on the current away !
Distracted I stand on the bank,
To the puntman I bawl out my woe—
O, rescue my rod ere it sink,
"Why move so confoundedly slow.