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!