THEY are long gone, those pleasant hours,
When we as girls and boys
Turned from our play among the flowers,
From all our painted toys,
To turn the leaves of picture books,
To live with lords, and kings,
Swineherds, and chimney sweeps, and cooks,
Soldiers, and such like things.
How still they stood! From day to day
No figure ever stirred.
The armies never marched away,
Nor ever spoke a word.
Now soldiers march with fife and drum.
Men move in every scene.
The picture books of old have come
To life upon the screen.