By Hubert J. Dance No friends are like the old friends, The friends of long ago, When life was simple, life was plain, And the world was staid and slow; A mystic charm surrounds the past, Those days beyond recall, When life seemed sadly, strangely sweet, So fair and sweet to all. No school is like the old school, The school we knew so well: The plain old school of bygone days, In our ears we hear its music still As the bell swung to and fro, In fancy hear the scholars' din As to their desks they go. No days are like the school days-- We see the teachers there, We hear the schoolroom's droning buzz, Feel mischief in the air; We hold again our books and slates, Play games again with vim, A misty haze is o'er those days-- Perhaps our eyes are dim. No times are like the old times-- Although we're plainly told We're growing gray, and talk that way Because we're growing old. No matter what the world may think, This is the truth we know; No school is like that school we knew, Our school of long ago. |
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