A sad-faced little fellow sits alone in deep disgrace,
There’s a lump arising in his throat, tears streaming down his face;
He wandered from his playmates, for he doesn’t want to hear
Their shouts of merry laughter, since the world has lost its cheer;
He has sipped the cup of sorrow, he has drained the bitter glass,
And his heart is fairly breaking; he’s the boy who didn’t pass.
In the apple tree the robin sings a cheery little song,
But he doesn’t seem to hear it, showing plainly something’s wrong;
Comes his faithful little spaniel for a romp and bit of play,
But the troubled little fellow sternly bids him go away.
All alone he sits in sorrow, with his hair a tangled mass,
And his eyes are red with weeping; he’s the boy who didn’t pass.
How he hates himself for failing, he…
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