________________________________________________
Title: The Sunday-School Picnic
Author: Joseph Crosby Lincoln [
More Titles by Lincoln]
Oh! the horns are all a-tootin' as we rattle through the town,
And we fellers are a-hootin' and a-jumpin' up and down,
And the girls are all a-gigglin' and a-tryin' ter be smart,
With their braided pig-tails wigglin' at the joltin' of the cart;
There's the teachers all a-beamin', rigged up in their Sunday clothes,
And the parson's specs a-gleamin' like two moons acrost his nose,
And the sup'rintendent lookin' mighty dignerfied and cool,
And a-bossin' of the picnic of the Baptist Sunday-school.
Everybody's got their basket brimmin' full of things ter eat,
And I've got one--if yer ask it--that is purty hard ter beat,--
'Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone,
And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone.
There'll be quarts of sass'parilla; yes, and "lemmo" in a tub;
There'll be ice-cream--it's vernilla--and all kinds of fancy grub;
And they're sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring,
So's the ants and hoppergrasses can just waltz on everything.
Then the girls they'll be a-yippin', 'cause a bug is in the cream;
And a "daddy-long-legs" skippin' round the butter makes 'em scream;
And a fuzzy caterpillar--jest the littlest kind they make--
Sets 'em holl'rin', "Kill her! kill her!" like as if it was a snake.
Then, when dinner-time is over and we boys have et enough,
Why, the big girls they'll pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and stuff;
And the big chaps they'll set 'round 'em, lookin' soft as ever wuz,
Talkin' gush and actin' silly, same as that kind always does.
Then, we'll ride home when it's dark'nin' and the leaves are wet with dew,
And the lightnin'-bugs are sparklin' and the moon is shinin', too;
We'll sing "Jingle bells" and "Sailing," "Seein' Nelly home," and more;
And that one that's slow and wailin', "Home ag'in from somethin' shore."
Then a feller's awful sleepy and he kinder wants ter rest,
But the stuff he's et feels creepy and like bricks piled on his chest;
And, perhaps, he dreams his stummick has been stepped on by a mule;
But it ain't: it's jest the picnic of the Baptist Sunday school!
[The end]
Joseph Crosby Lincoln's poem: Sunday-School Picnic
________________________________________________
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
