THE GLORIOUS FOURTH.

You need not wake to call me, to call me, mother dear,For to-morrow’ll be the noisest day of all the passing year;Of all the passing year, mother, the most uproarious day,And I, you bet, will stirring be before the morning gray.A flag-staff will be hoisted, mother, two hundred feet in air,And cannon will be ranged around the whole of Union Square,And on the instant Phœbus shoots his arrows o’er the hill,There’ll be a roar will shake the shore as far as Watsonville.You know the tailor’s nephew, mother, they call him Squinty Ware;Last year he powdered Perry’s jaw, and blinded Dobson’s mare,And while his poor old grandmamma was peeping through the blind,She got a “whiz” in her old phiz, that she’ll forever mind.And Henrietta Loring, mother, tied crackers to the tailOf Deacon Reed’s big, lazy hound, while eating from a pail;And goodness! gracious! how he jumped, and dusted for the shed;And in a moment every straw was blazing in his bed.And you’d have died of laughter, mother, I’m certain, if you sawOld Deacon Reed run out to tramp upon the burning straw;And when he ran to get the hose—for tramping would not do—His wig blew off, and down the street for half a block it flew.

You need not wake to call me, to call me, mother dear,

For to-morrow’ll be the noisest day of all the passing year;

Of all the passing year, mother, the most uproarious day,

And I, you bet, will stirring be before the morning gray.

A flag-staff will be hoisted, mother, two hundred feet in air,And cannon will be ranged around the whole of Union Square,And on the instant Phœbus shoots his arrows o’er the hill,There’ll be a roar will shake the shore as far as Watsonville.

A flag-staff will be hoisted, mother, two hundred feet in air,

And cannon will be ranged around the whole of Union Square,

And on the instant Phœbus shoots his arrows o’er the hill,

There’ll be a roar will shake the shore as far as Watsonville.

You know the tailor’s nephew, mother, they call him Squinty Ware;Last year he powdered Perry’s jaw, and blinded Dobson’s mare,And while his poor old grandmamma was peeping through the blind,She got a “whiz” in her old phiz, that she’ll forever mind.

You know the tailor’s nephew, mother, they call him Squinty Ware;

Last year he powdered Perry’s jaw, and blinded Dobson’s mare,

And while his poor old grandmamma was peeping through the blind,

She got a “whiz” in her old phiz, that she’ll forever mind.

And Henrietta Loring, mother, tied crackers to the tailOf Deacon Reed’s big, lazy hound, while eating from a pail;And goodness! gracious! how he jumped, and dusted for the shed;And in a moment every straw was blazing in his bed.

And Henrietta Loring, mother, tied crackers to the tail

Of Deacon Reed’s big, lazy hound, while eating from a pail;

And goodness! gracious! how he jumped, and dusted for the shed;

And in a moment every straw was blazing in his bed.

And you’d have died of laughter, mother, I’m certain, if you sawOld Deacon Reed run out to tramp upon the burning straw;And when he ran to get the hose—for tramping would not do—His wig blew off, and down the street for half a block it flew.

And you’d have died of laughter, mother, I’m certain, if you saw

Old Deacon Reed run out to tramp upon the burning straw;

And when he ran to get the hose—for tramping would not do—

His wig blew off, and down the street for half a block it flew.

CELEBRATING THE FOURTH.

Iknowit was not proper, mother, and I ashamed should beTo stand and gag, just like a wag, another’s loss to see;But ’twas a sight that got me quite, and I’ll be old indeedWhen I forget the comic look of that old Deacon Reed.I’ve got a rousing pistol, mother, the loudest in the block;And I have filed the little catch that holds the thing at cock,And hardly do I get the charge of powder in the bore,When off it goes just with a shake, and thunder! what a roar!So sleep on if you can, dear mother, and have no thought of me,For I’ll be up and charging round before there’s light to see;And when you hear a bang that makes the ring dance in your ear,Then you can bet your scissors, mother, that I am somewhere near.

Iknowit was not proper, mother, and I ashamed should be

To stand and gag, just like a wag, another’s loss to see;

But ’twas a sight that got me quite, and I’ll be old indeed

When I forget the comic look of that old Deacon Reed.

I’ve got a rousing pistol, mother, the loudest in the block;And I have filed the little catch that holds the thing at cock,And hardly do I get the charge of powder in the bore,When off it goes just with a shake, and thunder! what a roar!

I’ve got a rousing pistol, mother, the loudest in the block;

And I have filed the little catch that holds the thing at cock,

And hardly do I get the charge of powder in the bore,

When off it goes just with a shake, and thunder! what a roar!

So sleep on if you can, dear mother, and have no thought of me,For I’ll be up and charging round before there’s light to see;And when you hear a bang that makes the ring dance in your ear,Then you can bet your scissors, mother, that I am somewhere near.

So sleep on if you can, dear mother, and have no thought of me,

For I’ll be up and charging round before there’s light to see;

And when you hear a bang that makes the ring dance in your ear,

Then you can bet your scissors, mother, that I am somewhere near.

Back to Index Next