By William Brighty Rands
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.
His 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 bedroom, unawares,
You set your foot upon it.
Worms, worms, worms for bait!
Roach and dace and gudgeon!
With rod and line to Twickenham Ait
Tomorrow he is trudging!
O worms and fishes day and night!
Such was his sole ambition;
I’m gad to think you are not quite
So very fond of fishing!
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