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!