Wishing--Fishing.

I.

Full well I know that wishing never yet has brought
    The things that seem to us would satisfy the heart,
And that anticipated pleasure, when at last 'tis caught,
    Has naught but transitory solace to impart;
And yet, somehow, I've ever felt and thought
    A joy there is that never can depart--
(As long as we are capable of feeling--wishing)--
    And that's to leave dull care behind, and--go a-fishing!


II.

Some dream of wealth--of place--of fame--
    And fleeting shadows vainly they pursue;
And some have sighed to win a deathless name
    Where fields of carnage corpses thickly strew,
And shrieks of agony are heard 'mid smoke and flame;
    But these are dizzy heights attained by few;
So, when Dame Fortune is her favors dishing,
    I hope that I'll get mine in ample time to--go a-fishing!


III.

Oh, was there ever any sweeter dream,
    Or music with a tone that's more entrancing,
Than just to wander where some mountain stream
    Is o'er the rocks and polished pebbles dancing?
And nothing short of heaven itself, I ween,
    Is like the moment when, his scales all glancing,
You see the happy consummation of your wishing,
    And catch the very fish for which you have been fishing!

George W. Doneghy

No biography available

George W. Doneghy

December.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

A Faded Letter.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

The "Medical Spring."

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

Perryville.

George W. Doneghy, Simple Poetry

English

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A Dream Of Sunshine

I'm weary of this weather and I hanker for the ways
Which people read of in the psalms and preachers paraphrase--
The grassy fields, the leafy woods, the banks where I can lie
And listen to the music of the brook that flutters by,
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Where he makes believe he has a nest, but hasn't one at all;
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How like to pigmies will appear creation, as we float
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The Fisherman's Feast.

Of all the gracious gifts of Spring,
Is there another can safely surpass
This delicate, voluptuous thing--
This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid,
What exhalations superfine
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Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine.

The ancients loved this noble fish,
And, coming from the kitchen fire
All piping hot upon a dish,
What raptures did he not inspire!
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Once in their native vapid brine,
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Ah, dainty monarch of the flood,
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Bright visions of childhood! How dear to the heart
Are the scenes which from memory can never depart!
Undimmed by the sorrows, the grief and the tears
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They come like the rainbow which follows the storm--
On remembrance reflected with colors as warm--
And in dreams of delight they picture the fun
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With a can full of worms and a heart full of joy,
Up and down the old stream, a bare-footed boy,
A truant from school, my footsteps would stray
To the deep-shaded pool, or where ripples at play,
As they flowed over beds of smooth-polished stones,
Sang a lullaby sweet in soft undertones!
From the dawn of the day to the set of the sun
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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;
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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,
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I can ne'er see my hook with a

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Two Fishers

One morning when Spring was in her teens,
    A morn to a poet's wishing,
All tinted in delicate pinks and greens,
    Miss Bessie and I went fishing.

I in my rough and easy clothes,
    With my face at the sun-tan's mercy;
She with her hat tipped down to her nose,
    And her nose tipped, vice versa.

I with my rod, my reel, and my hooks,
    And a hamper for lunching recesses;
She with the bait of her comely looks,
    And the seine of her golden tresses.

So we sat us down on the sunny dike,
    Where the white pond-lilies teeter,
And I went to fishing like quaint old Ike,
    And she like Simon Peter.

All the noon I lay in the light of her eyes,
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Camping On The Cumberland.

Where the Cumberland flows on its way to the South,
From its source in the hills half-way to its mouth--
When Autumn has come and tempered the rays
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Is an Eden of bliss and a place of delight,
When the minnows are good and the "jumpers" will bite,
And a fellow's well fixed with a reel and a pole,
And other "equipments"--(of which I've been told)!

To camp there and fish for a week at a time,
And have the four-pounders just tug at your line,
Is a feeling akin to sweet visions we see
When we dream of that home where we all hope to be;
And no king in the world who sits on a throne
E'er felt the rare joy that thrills to the bone
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