Wayside Weeds

But the Cowdung Fly is away ahead!
So early, &c.

There’s the little black gnat when the sun shines bright
And the big white moth for the cool twilight
But of all the bugs in earth and sky
I’ll bet my boots on the Cowdung Fly!
So early, &c.

Then anglers all you can’t go wrong
If you’ve plenty of Cowdung Flies along
You never will want for fish to fry
If your book’s well stocked with the Cowdung Fly!

Song of the Bass

Over the waters, merrily dancing,
Softly glides our light canoe,
While the phantom mirror glancing,
Shines alternate white and blue.

    Chorus.
Never can tell when the bass is a-coming,
Never can tell when he’s going to bite;
First thing you know your reel will be humming,
Strike him quickly and hold him tight.

Past the maples, red and yellow,
Crimson oak and purple ash —
Gosh! you’ve hooked a monstrous fellow!
Golly! don’t you hear him splash?

Hold him lightly, reel him slowly
If you wish your fish to save;
Nothing’s gained by hurry – Holy
Moses! what a jump he gave.

Lower your rod; now take the slack up —
Thank your stars you’ve got him yet!
Now he sticks his thorny back up —
Now you’ve got him in the net!

In the basket, wrapped in fern, he’ll
Lie in state in scaly grace;
In the pan, when we return, he’ll
Find a warmer resting place.

Let him fry in crumbs and butter —
Hear the appetizing fizz!
No weak words that I could utter
Can describe how good he is.

Serve him with a slice of bacon,
Quickly to the banquet come,
And unless I’m much mistaken
Your remark will be “yum, yum!”

Never can tell when the Bass is a-comin’

Words: Drs. Ellis & Spencer. Music: Adapted.

    Allegro piscatore: con brio.

[play]

Maskinongewagaming[3 - The place where the Maskinongé dwells. In the vulgar tongue “Lunge Lake.”]

Would you slay the Maskinongé
In the fastness where he lurks?
Leave a card pour prendre congé
On the town and all its works.

Leave the tram-car’s jarring jangle
For the silent bark canoe;
For the forest’s leafy tangle,
Bid the dusty streets adieu.

As befits her slender tonnage,
In our tiny craft we stow
Cunningly our modest dunnage —
Shove her off, away we go!

Joy once more to grasp the paddle!
Farewell worry, doubt and gloom.
Care, who clings behind the saddle,
Finds in our canoe no room.

Off we go! The lake before us
Stretches far and stretches fair;
Forest scents are wafted o’er us;
Forest voices fill the air.

Paddling past the pebbly beaches
Where the ancient cedar grows;
Toiling in the open reaches
When the stiff nor’wester blows.

Winding down the silent river
Where the scarlet maples blaze,
And the pallid aspens quiver