Classic Poem

They put his spotless surplice on
And tied his flowing tie,
And he was fair to look upon
As he went singing by.
He sang the hymns with gentle grace,
That little lad of nine,
For there was something in his face
Which seemed almost divine.

His downcast eye was good to see,
His brow was smooth and fair,
And no one dreamed that there could be
A rascal plotting there;
Yet when all heads in prayer were bowed.
God's gracious care to beg,
The boy next to him cried aloud:
" Quit pinching o' my leg! "

A pious little child he seemed,
An angel born to sing;
Beholding him, none ever dreamed
He'd do a naughty thing;
Yet many a sudden " ouch! " proclaimed
That he had smuggled in
For mischief-making, unashamed,
A most disturbing pin.

And yet, I think, from high above,
The Father looking down,
Knows everything he's thinking of
And smiles when mortals frown,
For in the spotless surplice white
Which is his mother's joy,
He knows he's not an angel bright,
But just a healthy boy.