Poetry Archives

’Tis fine to play
    In the fragrant hay,
And romp on the golden load;
    To ride old Jack
    To the barn and back,
Or tramp by a shady road.
    To pause and drink,
    At a mossy brink;
Ah, that is the best of joy,
    And so I say
    On a summer’s day,
What’s so fine as being a boy?
        Ha, Ha!

    With line and hook
    By a babbling brook,
The fisherman’s sport we ply;
    And list the song
    Of the feathered throng
That flit in the branches nigh.
    At last we strip
    For a quiet dip;
Ah, that is the best of joy.
    For this I say
    On a summer’s day,
What’s so fine as being a boy?
        Ha, Ha!