'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!