The School on the Hill
A Poem

When you are growing old, my son,
And your joints are beginning to crack,
When the east wind drives you in, my son,
And the damp gives you pains in your back:
You’ll sigh for your schooldays, then, my son
And envy the happier day
When you cheerfully larked in the mud, my son,
And the east wind called you to play.

Then the days of your past will your memory fill,
And, if but for an hour or two,
You’ll wish you were back at the School on the Hill
With the boys that were boys with you.

Then in some private place, my son,
Where your cherished possessions you pack,
You’ll turn up a School Magazine, my son,
And these things will begin to come back:
The match that you played that day, my son,
When you scored a useful few:
And some hint, perhaps, of your work, my son,
And the names of the boys you knew.

Then the days of your past will your memory fill,
And, if but for an hour or two,
You’ll wish you were back at the School on the Hill
With the boys that were boys with you.

Taken from the Elizabethan, Christmas Term edition, 1913
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