Classic Poem

On Bunker-shore a village stands,
Where salt-sea waters flow,
Between sand-hills and scrub-oak lands,
And winds know how to blow.

The town was built upon some whales,
In prosperous years of yore,
Swept from the seas by boisterous gales,
And cast upon the shore.

A fishy smell is all around,—
“An ancient, fish-like smell;”
Upon, and in, and under ground,
In every spring and well.

The houses there of fish are built;
And all the people own,
From whale-ship down to cradle-quilt,
Is made of fish alone.

They live on fish; they plant the fish;
They sow the fish like grain;
Each garden 's a huge bunker-dish,
So is every field and plain.

Fish for your breakfast, if you eat;
Fish for your dinner too;
Fish for your poultry, fish for meat,
And fish for tea——a few!

Fish when you sleep, and when you wake;
At home, and making calls;
Fish at great parties you must take,
And fish in common balls.

Fish when you move, and when you breathe;
Fish for your eyes and nose;
Fish in you, round you, underneath,—
Where'er you go fish goes!

In-doors and out, up-stairs and down,
Go where you will, or stay;
From fish in that fish-ridden town
You cannot get away.

I took a hint from mine old host,
And tried a mid-day doze;
But woke to find a fish's ghost
Asleep within my nose!

I sought a clover-field in bloom,
To breathe its scented air,
And filled my nose with the perfume
Of bunkers rotting there.

A gardener saw that flowers I loved,
And kindly gave me some;
I kept the best, and lo! it proved
A fish-geranium!

Now some may say, The people there
Must be a scaly set,
With fish-bones in the place of hair,
And drink to keep them wet.

But 't is not so. Yet ghosts of fish,
Unseen, fill all the air;
And spite of all you do, or wish,
They haunt you everywhere!