Close by the edge of the lily pads,
there’s a flash and swirl of spray,
And the line draws taut, and the rod dips
low, and I sing as he speeds away;
And I whir and click with the joy of life, as
the line runs in and out,
And I laugh with glee as I reel him in, the
gamy and speckled trout.

And again the silken line is cast, and the fly
like a feather glides,
Close to the rock where the water’s deep, and
the wary black bass hides.
There’s a strike and a run as the game is
hooked, and his rush with a snub is met,
But he yields at last to the steady strain, and
is brought to the landing net.

As the sun sinks low in the western sky, and
the shadows longer grow,
And the night hawk wheels in his silent flight,
and the crickets draw their bow,
And the cat-tails wave in the gentle breeze,
and the boat glides on apace;
Then I reel in the line, while the bamboo rod
is laid away in its case.

The bass and the trout, and the wall-eyed pike,
the pickerel and muskalonge,
Have each and all been lost or won as I caused
them to race or plunge,
I’m the sportsman’s friend, and a foeman bold,
and I’ve filled full many a creel;
For what would the fisherman’s luck be worth
without the song of the reel?