And I longed to hear them speak of the

word that was said,

But I knew that I longed in vain.

And they stretched forth their hands, and

the wind of the spirit took them

Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.

THE ECHO

OF A BALLAD SUNG BY HARRY PLUNket Greene

TO HIS OLD SCHOOL

". . . seeing the city is built

To music, therefore never built at all,
And therefore built for ever."

TWICE three hundred boys were we,

Long ago, long ago,

Where the Downs look out to the Severn

Sea.

Clifton for aye!

We held by the game and hailed the team, For many could play where few could dream.

City of Song shall stand alway.

Some were for profit and some for pride,

Long ago, long ago,

Some for the flag they lived and died.

Clifton for aye!

The work of the world must still be done,

And minds are many though truth be one. City of Song shall stand alway.

But a lad there was to his fellows sang,
Long ago, long ago,

And soon the world to his music rang.

Clifton for aye!

Follow your Captains, crown your Kings, But what will ye give to the lad that sings? City of Song shall stand alway.

For the voice ye hear is the voice of home, Long ago, long ago,

And the voice of Youth with the world to

roam.

Clifton for aye!

The voice of passion and human tears,

And the voice of the vision that lights the

years.

City of Song shall stand alway.

THE BEST SCHOOL OF ALL

It's good to see the School we knew,
The land of youth and dream,
To greet again the rule we knew

Before we took the stream:

Though long we've missed the sight of her,

Our hearts may not forget;

We've lost the old delight of her,

We keep her honour yet.

We'll honour yet the School we knew,

The best School of all:

We'll honour yet the rule we knew,

Till the last bell call.

For, working days or holidays,

And glad or melancholy days,

They were great days and jolly days
At the best School of all.

The stars and sounding vanities
That half the crowd bewitch,
What are they but inanities

To him that treads the pitch?

And where's the wealth, I'm wondering,
Could buy the cheers that roll
When the last charge goes thundering
Beneath the twilight goal?

The men that tanned the hide of us,
Our daily foes and friends,

They shall not lose their pride of us
Howe'er the journey ends.

Their voice, to us who sing of it,

No more its message bears,

But the round world shall ring of it,
And all we are be theirs.

To speak of Fame a venture is,
There's little here can bide;

But we may face the centuries,
And dare the deepening tide :