Four of us went out fishing,
Mary, Fairy, I, and the man:
No use in grumble or wishing,
People may catch who can.
Mary was lucky that morning,
Lucky almost, I think, as the man,
And she laughed with her saucy scorning
As the fishes they filled her can.
The man was lucky in hooking:
Off the perch with his trimmers ran,
And he caught us a dish worth cooking,
As your Maidenhead fisherman can.
I caught nothing worth keeping,
Things about the length of a span;
When a gentleman’s heart is leaping
He may strike a fish, if he can.
But Fairy, she made a capture,
On her darling own original plan,
And Fairy’s eyes looked rapture
As her great soft violets can.
With a single line she made it,
O, such a line you’d have liked to scan!
One line, and the lady laid it
Where loving young ladies can.
In a gentleman’s hand she placed it
Before our Maidenhead fishing began,
How his chances of fish were wasted,
Tell, lovers—who only can.
Over-night an enraptured dancer
Had handed a passionate note in a fan,
And the line was this gracious answer—
“You may love me—if you can.”