Ponola [Sic] Weekly Register

A Ballad.
BY TOM HOOD, JR.

There lived an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well-
Who dwelt hard by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who lov'd his hook and rod-
So even ran his line of life,
His neighbor thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said
He never had a wish--
No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a "school of fish."

This singleminded fisherman
A double calling had--
To tend his flocks in winter time,
In summer fish for shad.

In short, this honest fisherman
All other toils forsook.
And though no vagrant man was he.
He lived by "hook and crook."

All day that fisherman would sit
Upon an ancient log,
And gaze into the water, like
Some sedentary frog

A cunning fisherman was he,
His angles all were right—
And when he scratch'd his aged poll
You'd know he got a bite.

To charm the fish he never spoke--
Although his voice was fine,
He found the most convenient way,
Was just to "drop a line."

And many a "gadgeon" of the pond,
If made to speak to-day.
Would own with grief, this angler had
A mighty "taking way."

One day while fishing on the log,
He mourned his want of luck-
When suddenly he felt a bite,
And jerking-caught a duck.

Alas that day the fisherman
Had taken too much grog,
And being but a landsman too,
He couldn't keep the log."

In vain he strove with all his might.
And tried to gain the shore--
Down, down he went to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!

The moral of this mournful tale,
To all is plain and clear-
A single "drop too much," of rum,
May make a watery bier.

And he who will not "sign the pledge"
And keep the promise fast
May be, in spite of fate, a stiff
Cold-water man at last!