The Fifth of July by Eugene Field

The sun climbs up, but still the tyrant Sleep / Holds fast our baby boy in his embrace; / The slumb'rer sighs, anon athwart his face / Faint, half-suggested frowns like shadows creep, / One little hand lies listless on his breast, / One little thumb sticks up with mute appeal, / While motley burns and powder marks reveal / The fruits of boyhood's patriotic zest.

Our baby's faithful poodle crouches near -- / He, too, is weary of the din and play / That come with glorious Independence Day, / But which, thank God! come only once a year! / And Fido, too, has suffered in this cause, / Which once a year right noisily obtains, / For Fido's tail -- or what thereof remains -- / Is not so fair a sight as once it was.