 | Quo Musa Tendis? |  |
5
My Old School.
There's a long low wall with trees behind it,
And an old grey chapel behind the trees,
Neath the shade of a royal keep you'll find it,
Where Kings and Emperors take their ease.
And an old grey chapel behind the trees,
Neath the shade of a royal keep you'll find it,
Where Kings and Emperors take their ease.
There's another wall, with a field beside it,
A wall not wholly unknown to fame;
For a game's played there which most who've tried it
Declare is a truly noble game.
A wall not wholly unknown to fame;
For a game's played there which most who've tried it
Declare is a truly noble game.
There's a great grey river that swirls and eddies
To the Bells of Ouseley from Boveney Weir,
With willowy stumps where the river's bed is,
And rippling shallows, and spaces clear.
To the Bells of Ouseley from Boveney Weir,
With willowy stumps where the river's bed is,
And rippling shallows, and spaces clear.
There's a cloistered garden and four quadrangles,
And red brick buildings both old and new:
There's a bell that tolls, and a clock that jangles,
And a stretch of sky that is often blue.
And red brick buildings both old and new:
There's a bell that tolls, and a clock that jangles,
And a stretch of sky that is often blue.
There's a street that's alive with boys and masters:
And ah! there's a feeling of home for me:
For my boyhood's triumphs, delights, disasters,
Successes and failures were here, you see.
And ah! there's a feeling of home for me:
For my boyhood's triumphs, delights, disasters,
Successes and failures were here, you see.
6
And if sometimes I've laughed in my rhymes at Eton,
Whose glory I never could jeopardise,
Yet I'd never a joy that I could not sweeten,
Or a sorrow I could not exorcise,
Whose glory I never could jeopardise,
Yet I'd never a joy that I could not sweeten,
Or a sorrow I could not exorcise,
By the thought of my school, and the brood that's bred there,
Her bright boy faces, and keen young life:
And the manly stress of the hours that sped there,
And the stirring pulse of her daily strife.
Her bright boy faces, and keen young life:
And the manly stress of the hours that sped there,
And the stirring pulse of her daily strife.
For, mark, when an old friend meets another
Who have lived and remembered for years apart,
And each is as true as to best-loved brother,
And each has a faithful and tender heart;
Who have lived and remembered for years apart,
And each is as true as to best-loved brother,
And each has a faithful and tender heart;
Do they straight spread arms, and profess devotion,
And exhibit the signs of a heartfelt joy?
No; but each stands steady, and scorns emotion,
And each says:—How do you do, old boy?
And exhibit the signs of a heartfelt joy?
No; but each stands steady, and scorns emotion,
And each says:—How do you do, old boy?
And so, old school, if I lightly greet you,
And have laughed at your foibles these fifteen years,
It is just as a dear old friend I treat you,
And the smile on my lips is a mask for tears:
And have laughed at your foibles these fifteen years,
It is just as a dear old friend I treat you,
And the smile on my lips is a mask for tears:
And it is not a form of words, believe me,
To say I am yours while my pulses beat,
And whatever garlands the fates may weave me
I'll lay right gladly at Eton's feet.
To say I am yours while my pulses beat,
And whatever garlands the fates may weave me
I'll lay right gladly at Eton's feet.
| Quo Musa Tendis? | |