‘Tis of the good ship Nautigal
That I would tell a tale.
The Lake was rough,
The sun was hot, The north wind blew a gale.

We gathered victuals, kids and worms
And waited on the dock
To hear the grave decision
Of our Captain Harold Mock.

At last he spoke the waited word
He said there’d be a blow.
But if we’d like to take a chance
He guessed that we could go.

He warned us of the bitter cold
Wool undies we must take
He warned us of the dead sea roll
Champlain‘s a tricky lake.

But we jumped in with all our gear.
“Come on, What’s the delay?”
“Let’s go,” we cried, “‘Tis time we’re off,
“Heave ho; anchors aweigh.”

The Nautigal cut waves and wind
Due northward she was bent.
She knew the wily bullhead dwelt
Just up above Port Kent.

But we’d only found our sea legs
Or should I say sea seats?
When the kids all got so hungry
That we opened up the eats.

Sandwiches and soda pop
Cup cakes and coffee to the neck.
They served us Boston baked beans
Out on the old poop deck.

We fixed our lines
The sun went west.
The lanterns alight
Kids gone to rest,

Us hardy sailors
Let lines out loose
And kept afloat
On old snake juice.

And through the long hours
Of the night
We waited for the
Fish to bite.

The fish were biting
Mighty slow
The Captain said
There’d be a blow.

The Nautigal swung
Around Champlain
The Captain said
That it would rain.

The moon arose
To the night bird’s call
I caught the Grandad bullhead
Of them all

But if you think
That made ’em squeal
You should hear
When Izzy caught an eel.

The Captain went to take a snooze
The anchor held us fast.
The First Mate said, “There’s naught to fear
“If the snake juice will only last.”

And then there was a mighty cry
No more sleep, or the like
As Mary Mock pulled in her line
With a great big Northern Pike.

As dawn came up
All clear and bright
The old bullhead
Began to bite.

They came in twos
And threes and fours
They came in dozens
And in scores.

It was bullheads through the windows
It was bullheads through the doors
They flipped up to the ceiling
They crawled around the floors.

And some of them were awful sad
Because we’d pulled them in
They squawked  and bit and flopped and flipped
And nicked us with a fin.

The Captain was a busy man
But had to stop his rush
To man the pump and reef the jib
And make the water closet flush.

Then ladies from a sister ship
Came sitting in our powder room
And Captain Mock again must go
And pump the head and man the boom.

And still the bullhead bit and bit
And bit and bit some more.
But for Dewitt, now for Alplaus,
Now Morris made a score.

Young Wally fished with two lines out.
Young Tart, he did alright.
But Brother Mock with a hundred fish
Was the real Champ of the night.

When at last we turned for home
With enough bullhead, by heck,
The Captain started cleaning fish
And Luella swabbed the deck.

That night it was in Essex Inn
That Izzy, Ed, and Ann
Built up the fire, and rolled the fish
And threw it in the pan.

We ate and ate and ate and ate
We tried to empty every dish,
We ate until we cried “Enough!”
We never want another fish.

And when the dishes were all washed
And we had said “Good-bye,”
We all declared that this had been
One mighty big fish fry.

Next morn awaked by voices clear
While for one more nap a’wishing
And peeking out I see… NO! NO!
Oh, yes it is
The Mock kids gone fishing.

Note: This poem, “The Tale of the Mighty Fish Fry” (and cover art) was provided by Karen Dalton who received it from Mary Wade. “Apparently, Caldy Hilbert was a teacher in NYC before she came to Essex. She was also an artist, and we have one of her paintings in the Essex Inn.”

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