In August

When August days are hot an' dry,

When burning copper is the sky,

I 'd rather fish than feast or fly

In airy realms serene and high.

I 'd take a suit not made for looks,

Some easily digested books,

Some flies, some lines, some bait, some hooks,

Then would I seek the bays and brooks.

I would eschew mine every task,

In Nature's smiles my soul should bask,

And I methinks no more could ask,

Except—perhaps—one little flask.

In case of accident, you know,

Or should the wind come on to blow,

Or I be chilled or capsized, so,

A flask would be the only go.

Then could I spend a happy time,—

A bit of sport, a bit of rhyme

(A bit of lemon, or of lime,

To make my bottle's contents prime).

When August days are hot an' dry,

I won't sit by an' sigh or die,

I 'll get my bottle (on the sly)

And go ahead, and fish, and lie!