The Fishers
| Silence! stir not! for a whisper Would affright thy pretty prey; Not a motion, little lisper, Else the fish will glide away. Hush! he’s coming! he is swimming Slowly round and round the bait; Steady! though thine eye is brimming Full of mirth that will not wait. And thy brother near thee kneeling Fears to hear thy ringing shout; Gently! near and nearer stealing Comes the brightly spotted trout. There! thy hook has caught him surely; Firmly hold thy slender rod; Pull away! and then securely Place him on the grassy sod. | |
| ’Neath the green boughs rustling o’er you, Fish away the livelong day; And with evening’s star before you, Wander home at twilight gray. |