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