There’s not a sad heart in the Kingdom, nor ever or ever a tear, And all of the sorrows of schooldays are lost or forgotten in here; The make-believe fairies go singing with songs that are wondrously sweet; The green turf is flecked with white dresses and patters with fast-flying feet; It’s just between School’s-Out and Teatime--an hour or so of the day, And often I see them there crowning with daisies the Princess of Play; Then some one calls: “Supper-time, children!”--when evening grows twilit and cool. It fades from my sight till tomorrow--the Kingdom of Right-After-School!
I was fond, indeed, of Paul Revere, In the days of my earlier age, And the picture of him stands out clear From the old school reader page; And I’ve seen the light in the belfry tower, I’ve heard the hoof beats, too, But, alas! alas! in an evil hour, They say it’s all untrue!
And Barbara Frietchie--all these years, From guileless boyhood down, I’ve seen the flag and heard the cheers In far off Fredericktown; And I’ve seen Jackson lift his hat And bid his troops march on, But now, alas! they tell me that Is a dreamer’s tale, and gone!
And oft at night, as though ’t were real, I’ve heard the flame’s wild roar, I’ve seen Jim Bludso hold the wheel Till the last galoot’s ashore; I thought the better of men for it, And of duty to die or do, But some wise men, of little wit, Say none of the tale is true.
Oh, leave me the ride of Paul Revere And the story of Fredericktown! The nozzle agin’ th’ bank--so clear From guileless boyhood down! Leave me the curfew that was not rung, Leave them for me and you; And let more songs like these be sung, Though none of the tales be true!
Hark! What is that clatter and patter of feet? The Boyville Cadets are half-way up the street! They march two by two, a most bloodthirsty horde, Led by Captain Tom Jones, with a big wooden sword. They’re mostly barelegged and coatless and brown, A make-believe army from all parts of town, With guns on their shoulders all whittled from lath, And woe to the foeman who crosses their path.
Bob Brown has a fife and Bill Blake has a drum. See now in what martial procession they come; Jim Dobbs waves the flag with victorious flirt, A long willow pole with a red woolen shirt. And Corporal Brownlegs, he squints down the line: “Attention! Right shoulder! Guide right!” Oh, it’s fine To know you’ve no troubles, no worries, no debts, And march down the street with the Boyville Cadets!