A Fishing Song

There was a boy whose name was Phinn, And he was fond of fishing; His father could not keep him in, Nor all his mother’s wishing.

His life’s ambition was to land A fish of several pound weight; The chief thing he could understand Was hooks, or worms for ground-bait.

The worms crept out, the worms crept in, From every crack and pocket; He had a worm-box made of tin, With proper worms to stock it.

He gave his mind to breeding worms As much as he was able; His sister spoke in angry terms To see them on the table.

You found one walking up the stairs, You found one in a bonnet, Or, in the bed-room, unawares, You set your foot upon it.

Worms, worms, worms for bait! Roach, and dace, and gudgeon! With rod and line to Twickenham Ait To-morrow he is trudging!

O worms and fishes day and night! Such was his sole ambition; I’m glad to think you are not quite So very fond of fishing!