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Eugene Field - Picnic-time
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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!
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