English poem
When Mabel Goes A-Fishing
by Ralph Henry Barbour (1870–1944)
WHEN tender June is in the land, And wood and wold are ringing With melody of Daphne's band, And mating birds are singing; When bush and tree of hill and glen Their happy leaves are swishing In time to Spring's sweet strains, why, then— Then Mabel goes a-fishing!
The fly is cast; (ah, he's a fool Who'd flee from Beauty's wounding!) Above the silent, sun-flecked pool The reel's shrill song is sounding; And all the little fishes race As fast as e'er they're able, To kiss the ripple-mirrored face Of cruel, winsome Mabel.
Ah, Master Walton, were you here, Were this the River Dove, The scene would evermore endear To you the sport you love; You'd idly sit, as I, sans doubt; As I, would fall to wishing That you were just a speckled trout When Mabel goes a-fishing!