The Dissatisfied Angler Boy
I’m sorry they let me go down to the brook;
I’m sorry they gave me the line and the hook;
And wish I had staid at home with my book!
I’m sure ’twas no pleasure to see
That poor little harmless, suffering thing
Silently writhe at the end of the string,
Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing
In torture,—and all for me!
’Twas a beautiful speckled and glossy trout;
And when from the water I drew him out,
On the grassy bank as he floundered about,
It made me shivering cold,
To think I had caused so much needless pain;
And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain:
O never, as long as I live, again
May I such a sight behold!
But, what would I give, once more to see
The brisk little swimmer alive and free,
And darting about as he used to be,
Unhurt, in his native brook!
’Tis strange that people can love to play,
By taking innocent lives away!
I wish I had stayed at home to-day
With sister, and read my book.