With her young fry.
'Twas April; and through all the sky,
The warm and moisty zephyrs flew,
To wake the mountains from their dreams;
And fill again the languid streams,
Which overflow'd the country through.
Oh then to see
Of the young fry,
As brisk and spry,
They darted through the swollen flood!
"Where's now your fear,
My mother dear?
There's nothing here but good.
The flood is to a deluge grown,
The whole world now is overflown,
And its domination is our own.
What is the need, midst such a sea,
In fear of hooks or hawks to be?"
Thus said the young fry in their glee.
"No, no," the mother straight replies,
"This flood is but a moment's rise;
Your only safety, as I've said,
Is not to leave the river's bed."
Exclaimed the mad young fish.
"You weak old carp!
You always on that one string harp!
We are resolv'd to leave the Seine,
And enter on our new domain."