The Old School Master
Black as coal was the night time,
In the old school garden,
Where the old school master would sit and gaze,
At the blushing red roses within.
Day after day they’d see him,
When his work was done for the rest,
Enjoying the glow of the flowers,
On that old bench he loved the best.
They’d watch and tell stories about him,
The crazy old master they’d say,
He sits there and stares like a madman,
As mad as his hair is grey.
All day they’d torment him,
Those boys, they should have known better,
For one night they played their nastiest trick,
And spent the rest of their time there in terror.
When the school lay sleeping one sunday,
They came with matches and fuel,
‘This’ll spook him!’ they sniggered, so wicked,
Who knew children could be so cruel.
The flames leapt up in the night,
Their grins glowing red as hell,
The Old School Master’s red roses,
Petal by petal they fell.
When the dawn came the boys had left there,
Left nothing but dirt and ash,
For all that was living had died there,
The Old Master never came back.
Nothing grows now in that garden,
Not a single flower within,
As for those boys, no one knows,
But they certainly paid for their sins.
Black as coal is the night time,
In the old school garden,
Where the Old School Master would sit and gaze,
At the blushing red roses within.
They say on that bench he’s still sitting,
Though not to the naked eye,
When the nastiest children walk near it,
They feel a chill rush by.
