Classic Poem

Oh the brave Fishers life,
It is the best of any,
'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And 'tis belov'd of many:
Other joyes
are but toyes,
only this
lawful is,
for our skil
breeds no ill,
but content and pleasure.

in a morning up we rise
Ere Aurora 's peeping,
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,
Leave the sluggard sleeping;
Then we go
too and fro,
with our knacks
at our backs,
to such streams
as the Thames
if we have the leisure.

When we please to walk abroad
For our recreation,
In the fields is our abode,
Full of delectation:
Where in a Brook
with a hook,
or a Lake
fish we take,
there we sit
for a bit,
till we fish intangle.

We have Gentles in a horn,
We have Paste and worms too,
We can watch both night and morn,
Suffer rain and storms too:
None do here
use to swear,
oathes do fray
fish away,
we sit still,
watch our quill,
Fishers must not rangle.

If the Suns excessive heat
Make our bodies swelter,
To an Osier hedge we get
For a friendly shelter,
where in a dike
Pearch or Pike ,
Roch or Dace
we do chase
Bleak or Gudgion
without grudging,
we are still contented.

Or we sometimes pass an hour,
Under a green willow,
That defends us from a showr,
Making earth our pillow,
There we may
think and pray
before death
stops our breath;
other joyes
are but toyes
and to be lamented.