  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! |
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