A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace, There's a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face; He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn't want to hear Their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer; He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass, And his heart is fairly breaking; he's the boy who didn't pass.
In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song, But he doesn't seem to hear it, showing plainly something's wrong; Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play, But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away. All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass, And his eyes are red with weeping; he's the boy who didn't pass.
How he hates himself for failing, he can hear his playmates jeer, For they've left him with the dullards--gone ahead a half a year, And he tried so hard to conquer, oh, he tried to do his best, But now he knows, he's weaker, yes, and duller than the rest. He's ashamed to tell his mother, for he thinks she'll hate him, too-- The little boy who didn't pass, who failed of getting through.
Oh, you who boast a laughing son, and speak of him as bright, And you who love a little girl who comes to you at night With smiling eyes, with dancing feet, with honors from her school, Turn to that lonely little boy who thinks he is a fool, And take him kindly by the hand, the dullest in his class, He is the one who most needs love, the boy who didn't pass.
Yes, it's a quiet station, but it suits me well enough; I want a bit of the smooth now, for I've had my share o' rough. This berth that the company gave me, they gave as the work was light; I was never fit for the signals after one awful night, I'd been in the box from a younker, and I'd never felt the strain Of the lives at my right hand's mercy in every passing train. One day there was something happened, and it made my nerves go queer, And it's all through that as you find me the station-master here.
I was on at the box down yonder--that's where we turn the mails, And specials, and fast expresses, on to the center rails; The side's for the other traffic--the luggage and local slows. It was rare hard work at Christmas, when double the traffic grows. I've been in the box down yonder nigh sixteen hours a day, Till my eyes grew dim and heavy, and my thoughts went all astray; But I've worked the points half-sleeping--and once I slept outright, Till the roar of the Limited woke me, and I nearly died with fright.