Oh, for the merry, merry month of June,
When I was a little lad!
When the small birds’ throats were all in tune,
And the very fields were glad.
And the flowers that alas! were to fade too soon,
In their holiday clothes were clad.
Oh, I remember--remember well,
The scent of the morning grass,
Nor was there a sight, sweet sound, or sweet smell,
That can e’er from my memory pass:
For they lie on my heart with the power of a spell,
Like the first love I felt for a lass.
Ay, there is the river in which I swam,
The field where I used to play--
The fosse where I built the bridge and the dam,
And the oak in whose shade I lay:
But, oh, how changed a thing I am!
And how unchanged are they!
Time was--ah! that was the happy time!--
When I longed a man to be;
When a shaven chin was a thing sublime--
And a fine thing to be free:
And methought I had nought to do but climb
To the height of felicity.
But, alas! my beard is waxen grey
Since I mingled among men;
And I’m not much wiser, nor half so gay,
Nor so good as I was then;--
And I’d give much more than I care to say
To be a boy again.