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T'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!