That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was _true_! So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!
There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."
And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith: Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free-- Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"
You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!
Yes, we're boys--always playing with tongue or with pen; And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful and laughing and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of Thy children, THE BOYS!
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind is never weary; My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; Thy fate is the common fate of all, Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary.
'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung Of the "house by the side of the way"; Our Master had neither a house nor a home, But He walked with the crowd day by day. And I think, when I read of the poet's desire, That a house by the road would be good; But service is found in its tenderest form When we walk with the crowd in the road.
So I say, let me walk with the men in the road, Let me seek out the burdens that crush, Let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weak Who are falling behind in the rush. There are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend, There's a cup of cold water to give; And the man in the road by the side of his friend Is the man who has learned to live.