When I was young and frivolous and never
stopped to think,
When I was always doing wrong, or just upon
the brink;
When I was just a lad of seven and eight and
nine and ten,
It seemed to me that every day I got in trouble
then,
And strangers used to shake their heads and say
I was no good,
But father always stuck to me-it seems he
understood.

I used to have to go to him ’most every night
and say
The dreadful things that I had done to worry
folks that day.
I know I didn’t mean to be a turmoil round the
place,
And with the womenfolks about forever in disgrace;
To do the way they said I should, I tried the
best I could,
But though they scolded me a lot-my father
understood.

He never seemed to think it queer that I should
risk my bones,
Or fight with other boys at times, or pelt a cat
with stones;
An’ when I’d break a window pane, it used to
make him sad,
But though the neighbors said I was, he never
thought me bad;
He never whipped me, as they used to say to me
he should;
That boys can’t always do what’s right-it
seemed he understood.

Now there’s that little chap of mine, just full of
life and fun,
Comes up to me with solemn face to tell the
bad he’s done.
It’s natural for any boy to be a roguish elf,
He hasn’t time to stop and think and figure for
himself,
And though the womenfolks insist that I should
take a hand,
They’ve never been a boy themselves, and they
don’t understand.

Some day I’ve got to go up there, and make a
sad report
And tell the Father of us all where I have fallen
short;
And there will be a lot of wrong I never meant
to do,
A lot of smudges on my sheet that He will have
to view.
And little chance for heavenly bliss, up there,
will I command,
Unless the Father smiles and says: “My boy,
I understand.”