One pair is kicking 'gainst the bench, The patient bench, at school; And two are wading through the mud, And splashing in the pool.
"The sea, the blue, lone sea," hath one. He left it on the beach; A merry wave came dancing up, And bore it out of reach.
One sleeps where depths of slimy bog Are glossed with grasses o'er; One hasty plunge--it loosed its hold, And sank to rise no more.
One pair--aha! I see them now, And know them past all doubt; For through each leather, gaping wide, A rosy toe peeps out.
And parted thus, old, dusty, torn, They travel far and wide, Who in the shop, in shining rows, Sat lately side by side.
And thus they frolic, frolic there, And thus they caper here; But great and small, and torn and all, To mother's heart are dear.
It's far away under the water, And it's far away under the sea, There's a beautiful palace a-waiting For my little Rosy and me.
The roof is made of coral, And the floor is made of pearl, And over it all the great waves fall With a terrible tumble and whirl.
The fishes swim in at the window, And the fishes swim out at the door, And the lobsters and eels go dancing quadrilles All over the beautiful floor.
There's a silver throne at on end, And a golden throne at the other; And on them you see, as plain as can be, "Queen Rosy" and "Queen Mother."
And I will sit on the silver throne, And Rosy shall sit on the gold; And there we will stay, and frolic and play, Until we're a thousand years old.
Do you see that stately column, Children dear, Lifting its gray head to heaven, Year by year? Telling of the battle fought, Telling of the good work wrought, Telling of the victory bought, Bought so dear!
Oh! the costly blood that flowed, Children mine! Fast as from the purple grapes Flows the wine! Oh! the heroes lying dead! Oh! the women's hearts that bled! Oh! the bitter tears they shed, Children mine!
Long ago the tears were dried, Children dear! Long ago the weepers died, Year by year. But the column old and gray Tells the story day by day. "Victory!" it seems to say. "Victory's here!"
Is there anything new to sing about you, May, my dear? Any unhackneyed thing about you, Pray, my dear? Anything that has not been sung Long ago, when the world was young, By silver throat and golden tongue? Say, my dear!