A Parody.

On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
    We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
    And wished that he had stayed away.
We laid him on the beach to dry,
    Then served him frizzled on a dish,
A warning to the smaller fry,
    As well as all the larger fish.
                    O--o--o--o--o!
On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
    We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
    And wished that he had stayed away.

Oh, 'twas a scaly thing to haul
    This tom-cod from his native spray,
And thus to frighten, one and all,
    The finny tribe from Rockaway!
They shun the fisher's hook and line,
    And never venture near his net,
So, when at Rockaway you dine,
    Now not a thing but clams you get!
                    O--o--o--o--o!
On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
    We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
    And wished that he had stayed away!

Should critics at my ballad carp,
    To them this simple truth I'll say,
The grammar's quite as good as Sharp
    Wrote on the beach of Rockaway:
The tune's the same that Russell cribbed
    With the addition of his O,
Which makes it, or the singer fibbed,
    Original and all the go--
                    O--o--o--o--o!
On old Long Island's sea-girt shore
    We caught a cod the other day;
He never had been there before,
    And wished that he had stayed away!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Only Thine.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

To The Evening Star.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Song of the Sewing-Machine

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Western Refrain

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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The Miller By The Shore. An East Coast Chanty

The miller by the shore am I,
    A man o' despert sense;
I've fotty different soorts o' ways
    O' addlin' honest pence.
Good wheat and wuts and barley-corns
    My mill grinds all t' day lang ;
Frae faave 'o t' morn while seven o' t' neet
    My days are varra thrang.

Chorus
I mill a bit, I till a bit,
    I dee all maks 'o jobs,
Frae followin' ploos and hollowin' coos
    To mendin' chairs and squabs.(1)
Oh! folks they laugh and girn at me,
    I niver tak it ill;
If I's the Jack 'o ivery trade,
    They all bring grist to t' mill.

I tend my hunderd yakker farm,
    An' milk my Kyloe kye.
I've Lincoln yowes an' Leicester tups
    An' twenty head 'o wye.(2)
I've stirks to tak to Scarbro' mart,
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Frederic William Moorman

Up the Hudson.

Song and Chorus.




Up the Hudson!--Fleetly gliding
    To our haunts among the trees!
Joy the gallant vessel guiding
    With a fresh and cheerful breeze!
Wives and dear ones yearn to meet us--
    (Hearts that love us to the core!)
And with fond expressions greet us
    As we near the welcome shore!


Chorus.


Ho! ye inland seas and islands!--
    (Echo follows where we go!)
Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands!
    Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!


Up the Hudson!--Rock and river,
    Grove and glen pronounce His praise,
Who, of every "Good the Giver,"
    Leads us through these pleasant ways!--
Care recedes like water-traces
    Of our bark, as on we glide,
Where the hand of nature graces<...

George Pope Morris

Fisherman's Chant, The

Oh, the fisherman is a happy wight!
He dibbles by day, and he sniggles by night.
He trolls for fish, and he trolls his lay,
He sniggles by night, and he dibbles by day.
    Oh, who so merry as he!
    On the river or the sea!
        Sniggling,
        Wriggling
        Eels, and higgling
        Over the price
        Of a nice
        Slice
        Of fish, twice
        As much as it ought to be.

Oh, the fisherman is a happy man!
He dibbles, and sniggles, and fills his can!
With a sharpened hook, and a sharper eye,
He sniggles and dibbles for what comes by,
    Oh, who so merry as he!
    On the river or the sea!
Dibbling
Nibbling
Chub, and quibbling
Over the price
Of a nice
Slice
Of fish, twice
A...

Francis Cowley Burnand

The Angler's Farewell.

"Resigned, I kissed the rod."


Well! I think it is time to put up!
For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,
Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
But however I wish
To inveigle the fish,
To my gentle they will not play simple!

Though my float goes so swimmingly on,
My bad luck never seems to diminish;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream,
And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish!

Not a Trout there can be in the place,
Not a Grayling or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook
With attention I look,
I can ne'er see my hook with a

Thomas Hood

The Mermaid Of Margate.[1]

"Alas! what perils do environ
That man who meddles with a siren!" - Hudibrus.



On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,
And the sentimental reads;
Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes
Like the ocean - to cast her weeds; -

Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships, -
Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells, -
And the Chandler for watery dips; -

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,
As lovely and fair as sin!
But woe, deep water and woe to him,
That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,
And her locks are golden loose,
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,
To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And all day long she combeth them...

Thomas Hood

Rhyme Of The Kipperling, The

(AFTER R. K.)

[N.B., No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.]

Away by the haunts of the Yang-tse-boo,
    Where the Yuletide runs cold gin,
And the rollicking sign of the Lord Knows Who
    Sees mariners drink like sin;
Where the Jolly Roger tips his quart
    To the luck of the Union Jack;
And some are screwed on the foreign port,
    And some on the starboard tack;,
Ever they tell the tale anew
    Of the chase for the kipperling swag;
How the smack Tommy This and the smack Tommy That
They broached each other like a whiskey-vat,
    And the Fuzzy-Wuz took the bag.

Now this is the law of the herring fleet that harries the northern main,
Tattooed in scars on the chests of the tars with a brand lik...

Owen Seaman