Picnic-Time

It's June ag'in, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy     That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy;     For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen,     Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' green";     Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and ants,     An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to meetin' pants.     It's June ag'in, an' with it all what happiness is mine -     There's goin' to be a picnic, an' I'm goin' to jine!     One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained!     (But grampa says that that's the way "baptizo" is explained.)     And once I jined the 'Piscopils an' had a heap o' fun -     But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyteriun!     They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges, an' pies,     That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes!     Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriuns give yer is so fine     That when they have a picnic, you bet I'm goin' to jine!     But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me,     For they're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.;     Why should a liberal universalist like me object     To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect?     However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be,     Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me!     So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine,     They're goin' to give a picnic, and I'm goin' to jine!