Our game was his but yesteryear; 
We wished him back; we could not know 
The self-same hour we missed him here 
He led the line that broke the foe. 

Blood-red behind our guarded posts 
Sank as of old and dying day; 
The battle ceased; the mingled hosts 
Weary and cheery went their way: 

"To-morrow well may bring," we said, 
"As fair a fight, as clear a sun." 
Dear Lad, before the world was sped, 
For evermore thy goal was won. 

Added: May 19 2005 | Viewed: 664 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Sir Henry Newbolt
Poem: The Schoolfellow

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