With its seedy desks and benches, where at least I left a name
Carved in agricultural letters—’twas my only bid for fame;
And the spider-haunted ceilings, and the rafters, firmly set,
Lined with darts of nibs and paper (doubtless sticking in them yet),
And the greasy slates and blackboards, where I oft was proved a fool
And a blur upon the scutcheon of the old bush school.
There I see the boots in order—“ ’lastic-sides” we used to wear—
With a pair of “everlastin’s” cracked and dusty here and there;
And we marched with great “high action”—hands behind and eyes before—
While we murdered “Swanee River” as we tramped around the floor.