Accompanied in the book form by the following narrative in verse: "Job Timmins was a tailor bold, / And well he knew his trade, / And though he was no fighting man / Had often dress'd a blade! / Quoth he, one day—"I have not had / A holiday for years, / So I'm resolv'd to go and fish, / And cut for once the shears." / So donning quick his Sunday's suit, / He took both rod and line, / And bait for fish—and prog for one, / And eke a flask of wine. / For he was one who loved to live, / And said—"Where'er I roam / I like to feed—and though abroad, / To make myself at home." / Beneath a shady grove of trees / He sat him down to fish, / And having got a cover, he / Long'd much to get a dish. / He cast his line, and watch'd his float, / Slow gliding down the tide; / He saw it sink! he drew it up, / And lo! a fish he spied. / He took the struggling gudgeon off, / And cried—"I likes his looks, / I wish he'd live—but fishes die / Soon as they're—off the hooks!" / At last a dozen more he drew— / (Fine-drawing 'twas to him!) / But day past by—and twilight came, / All objects soon grew dim. / "One more!" he cried, "and then I'll pack, / And homeward trot to sup,"— / But as he spoke, he heard a tread, / Which caused him to look up. / Poor Timmins trembled as he gazed / Upon the stranger's face; / For cut purse! robber! all too plain, / His eye could therein trace. / "Them's werry handsome boots o' yourn," / The ruffian smiling cried, / "Jist draw your trotters out—my pal— / And we'll swop tiles, besides." / "That coat too, is a pretty fit— / Don't tremble so—for I / Von't rob you of a single fish, / I've other fish to fry." / Poor Timmins was obliged to yield / Hat, coat, and boots—in short / He was completely stripp'd—and paid / Most dearly for his "sport." / And as he homeward went, he sigh'd— / "Farewell to stream and brook; / O! yes, they'll catch me there again / A fishing—with a hook!""