His net old fisher George long drew,
Shoals upon shoals he caught,
'Till death came hauling for his due
And made poor George his draught.
Death fishes on through various shapes,
In vain it is to fret;
Nor fish or fisherman escapes
Death's all-enclosing net.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ah! The perfect inscription for a man who made fishing his life's work.