There are lads who count the days
To the glad vacation time,
And their hearts go truanting;
Though they walk appointed ways
Duteously, the home-bells chime
In their ears, the home-birds sing,
And they hear their cronies call
To some game or festival.

I could wish that death might come
Like the respite to a task,
Or a holiday hard-won.
Life's long schooling burdensome
Over now, so we may bask
In a sense of duty done;
In a sense of freedom wide
Opening out on every side.