You may sing of your merry maidens,
Sing praises from morning till night,
And eagerly tell
Of the magic spell
That lurks in their eyes so bright;
You may boast of their subtle power,
And rave o'er their ways so sweet,
And you may abound
In logic too sound
For a man of my speech to meet.
But--I'll cling to my rod and my tackle,
And follow the winding brook,
And the praises I shout
Shall all go for the trout,
As they cling to my dainty hook.
Show me beauties, I ask, more bewitching--
More lovely to sigh for than they,
As they gracefully glide
Thro' the streamlet so wide
In the shine of a glad summer day.
To woo and to win them, believe me,
Is ever my ardent desire,
And no need hath my heart
For a touch of love's dart,
And I scorn the flame of Love's fire.
But the blaze I love best you may kindle
Hard by on the bank and then bring
Your big broiler out,
And toss on your fat trout,
While my praise of our dinner I sing.
