| Once there was a little boy |
| Whose name was Robert Reese, |
| And every Friday afternoon |
| He had to speak a piece. |
| |
| So many poems thus he learned |
| That soon he had a store |
| Of recitations in his head |
| And still kept learning more. |
| |
| Now this it is what happened: |
| He was called upon one week |
| And totally forgot the piece |
| He was about to speak. |
| |
| His brain he vainly cudgeled |
| But no word was in his head, |
| And so he spoke at random, |
| And this is what he said; |
| |
| My beautiful, my beautiful, |
| Who standest proudly by, |
| It was the schooner Hesperus |
| The breaking waves dashed high. |
| |
| Why is the Forum crowded? |
| What means this stir in Rome? |
| Under a spreading chestnut tree |
| There is no place like home. |
| |
| When Freedom from her mountain height |
| Cried, "Twinkle, little star," |
| Shoot if you must this old gray head, |
| King Henry of Navarre. |
| |
| If you're waking, call me early |
| To be or not to be, |
| Curfew must not ring to-night, |
| Oh, woodman, spare that tree. |
| |
| Charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, on! |
| And let who will be clever, |
| The boy stood on the burning deck |
| But I go on for ever. |
