How dear to our hearts is that old Sabbath schoolroom,
Which each Sunday morning presents to our view;
The seats, the piano, the portrait that's near it,
And ev'ry loved thing which our memory knew.
Our dearly-loved pastor, his wife who comes with him,
Our Superintendent, and dear Mrs. G.,
The teachers, the pupils, and faithful Librarians,
We each Sabbath morning invariably see.
That old Sabbath schoolroom, that dearly-loved schoolroom,
That blessed old schoolroom where all love to be.

That old Sabbath schoolroom we hail as a treasure;
For often, when weary and anxious with care,
We've found it the place of a heavenly pleasure
We seek for with ardor, but find not elsewhere.
How eager we enter, with hearts that are glowing,
And quick to our places,—we all know them well,—
And then with our song-books, and souls overflowing,
The anthem of praise we unitedly swell,
That old Sabbath schoolroom, that dearly-loved schoolroom,
That blessed old schoolroom where all love to be.

Blest truth,—from our teachers with joy we receive it,—
That God is our Father, our Savior and Friend!
There's nought so alluring could tempt us to leave it,
Though fraught with all pleasures the fancy can lend.
And when far removed to some distant location,
The tears of regret will intrusively swell,
As mem'ry reverts to our former vocation,
And longs for the schoolroom we all loved so well.
That old Sabbath schoolroom, that dearly-loved schoolroom,
That blessed old schoolroom we all love so well.