I have looked today far down the aisles of memory's happy past I saw the scenes I saw before that were too bright to last But still in many a lonely hour my thoughts do oft recoil To boyhood's hours of birds and flowers when free from care and toil
I see the schoolhouse on the hill, the crystal pond below The waters rippling gently still upon their downward flow And often with our little boats in springtime cool and clear We sailed them o’er its surface with neither care nor fear.
I see the grassy spot where a long noon hour we played Around our ancient looking church and in the silent shade. And on each stormy winter's day with frost and ice and snow We'd take our slide ropes in our hands and up the hill we'd go
Away upon the icy hill, so high and smooth and steep And then with laughter, song and shout Adown the hill we'd sweep
The old schoolhouse has long been gone That old brown house so queer Still I can see the boys and girls Their merry voices hear The long, low seats for little boys Were near our master's chair When Joe and George and John and I were snuggly seated there
Where are those merry boys Who joined with me at play Not all have reached to manhood's prime As some have passed away But memory deep still round me clings Was that dear place I see Where life was one long summer day So joyous, bright and free
“This poem written by Uncle Andy, was found in a scrapbook kept by my mother and his niece Aggie ” —Terry |
The Old Schoolhouse Andrew Joseph Nash |
Branch Come Home Year August 9-19, 2007 |