e knees;
I'm the pride of my daddy, my mammy's own joy--
A frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

II.

I can make a top hum, and at marbles, you bet,
I'm the cock of the walk and the king of the "set;"
I'm hearty and healthy--and don't you forget
The dead loads of "goodies" that I can destroy--
I'm a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

III.

They send me to school with my satchel and books,
And my pockets bulged out with nails and fish-hooks;
And sometimes while there my teacher she looks
And captures the things that provoke and annoy
From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

IV.

My mammy she says that it's quite evident
Of the country some day I'll be President;
But auntie, she says from the way I am bent
The gold of her dream will be full of alloy
From a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

V.

I'm huntin' for fun, and I don't have a care,
And there's dirt on my hands, and I don't comb my hair,
And off-colored patches quite often I wear;
But there's no kind of sport the young heart can cloy
Of a frolicsome, rollicksome, freckle-faced boy!

THE DAM BELOW THE MILL.

The Springtime am a-comin', and the dogwood soon will bloom,
With the blossoms ten times thicker than the green leaves are in June,
And if yer want some pleasure that I nominate divine,
Just git yer minnow bucket, and yer hook and pole and line,
And slip away some mornin', when the weather's bright and still,
And hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

There are lots of other pleasures in the old world here below,
And a mighty heap of happiness a feller 'll never know--
But never mind about 'em--just yer slip away and feel
That something so delectable that over yer will steal;
For it sets the pulses beatin' with a magic kind of thrill
When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

When yer 'gin to take the fever, and yer feel it comin' on,
Why yer boun' ter go a-fishin', just as shore as yer born;
Then ye'd better git yer trapping's in the proper kind o' fix,
And go and hear the music when yer reel a-spinnin' clicks;
For he rushes through the water at a pace that's fit ter kill
When yer hang a four-pound jumper at the dam below the mill!

THE SERENADE.

I.

The winds were hushed, and thin and high
The fleecy clouds were drifting,
And through them as she sailed the sky
The moon's soft light was sifting.

II.

Beneath her pale and tender