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!