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.