Till the noontide recess came,
And when't was over, ah, sad disgrace,
The teacher, seeing an empty place,
Marked "truant" against his name;
While he, forgetful of book or rule,
Sought only a tree to climb:
For where is the boy who remembers school
When the cowslip blows by the marshy
And it's just birds'-nesting time?

* * * * *

THE OLD SWORD ON THE WALL

Where the warm spring sunlight, streaming
Through the window, sets its gleaming,
With a softened silver sparkle in the dim and dusky hall,
With its tassel torn and tattered,
And its blade, deep-bruised and battered,
Like a veteran, scarred and weary, hangs the old sword on the wall.

None can tell its stirring story,
None can sing its deeds of glory,
None can say which cause it struck for, or from what limp hand it fell;
On the battle-field they found it,
Where the dead lay thick around it--
Friend and foe--a gory tangle--tossed and torn by shot and shell.

Who, I wonder, was its wearer,
Was its stricken soldier bearer?