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The Glorious Fourth And Its Memories.
By Edwin C. Ranck
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.
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