You hear that boy laughing?—You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done. The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!
Yes, we're boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen,— And I sometimes have asked,—Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, the BOYS!