When I am out of funds and sorts
And life is all in snarls,
I quit New York and travel east
To Boston on the Charles.
In Boston, life is smoother far,
It’s easier and freer,
Where every boy’s a Harvard man
And every man’s a skier.
There’s something in the Boston scene
So innocent, so tranquil,
It takes and holds my interest
The same as any bank will.
For Boston’s not a capital,
And Boston’s not a place;
Rather I think that Boston is
A sort of state of grace.
The people’s lives in Boston
Are flowers blown in glass;
On Commonwealth, on Beacon,
They bow and speak and pass.
No man grows old in Boston,
No lady ever dies;
No youth is ever wicked,
No infant ever cries.
And life is all in snarls,
I quit New York and travel east
To Boston on the Charles.
In Boston, life is smoother far,
It’s easier and freer,
Where every boy’s a Harvard man
And every man’s a skier.
There’s something in the Boston scene
So innocent, so tranquil,
It takes and holds my interest
The same as any bank will.
For Boston’s not a capital,
And Boston’s not a place;
Rather I think that Boston is
A sort of state of grace.
The people’s lives in Boston
Are flowers blown in glass;
On Commonwealth, on Beacon,
They bow and speak and pass.
No man grows old in Boston,
No lady ever dies;
No youth is ever wicked,
No infant ever cries.
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