Three fishers went strolling away to the stream,
To the babbling brook where the fishes swim.
Of speckled beauties they all did dream,
And each felt certain they'd bite for him.
For men will tramp from morning till night,
And suffer the fierce mosquito's bite,
And drink to stop their groaning.
Three fishers strolled into the market-place,
'Twas some two hours after the sun went down,
And a look of gloom was on each man's face,
For at empty baskets they each did frown,
For men may fish, but may get no bite,
And tired and hungry go home at night,
And vent their wrath in groaning.
Three fishers strolled into the beer saloon,
Where the crowd sat round and the gas was bright,
And each gaily whistled a merry tune,
And showed his fish with assumed delight,
For men will fish, yea, and men will lie,
And boast of catching the fish they buy,
While inwardly they're groaning.