The Glorious Fourth And Its Memories.

Have you ever mused in silence upon a summer's day
    And let your thoughts run riot and your feelings have full sway,
As you sprawled full length upon the grass in some secluded dell
    And breathed the balmy country air, and smelt the country smell?

Then as you muse,
    And gently snooze,
Between thinks
    You remember those jinks
When spirits were high
    On the Fourth of July.

There was little Willie Browning, the worst of all the boys
    Who had a sure-nuff cannon that made all kinds of noise;
And when the cannon wouldn't go he blew into the muzzle,
    But what became of Willie's teeth has always been a puzzle.

How the folks looked askance
    At the seats of our pants,
When those giant skyrockets
    Went off in our pockets!
Gee whiz!
    What fun the Fourth is!

When the red-hot July sun began to wink the clouds away,
    We were out with whoops and shoutings to celebrate the day.
With piece of punk in one hand and crackers in the other,
    We would troop home later in the day for linseed oil and mother.

But our burns
    Were small concerns.
Our hearts were light,
    Injuries slight.
Not even a sigh
    On the Fourth of July.

And as you lie and ponder, the thought comes home to you
    That your youngest boy now celebrates the way you used to do;
And the mother that he bawls for to have those small wounds dressed
    Is the woman whom long years ago you swore you loved the best.

But what funny things
    Memory brings.
Who would have thought
    That I would be caught
With a tear in my eye
    On the Fourth of July.