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 welth I’m wondering,
  Could buy the cheers that roll
When the last charge goes thundering
  Towards the twilight goal?

Then 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 deepending tide: 
for though the dust that’s part of us,
  To dust again be gone,
Yet here shall beat the heart of us—–­
  The school we handed on!

    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.

England

Praise thou with praise unending,
  The Master of the Wine;
To all their portions sending
  Himself he mingled thine: 

The sea-born flush of morning,
  The sea-born hush of night,
The East wind comfort scorning,
  And the North wind driving right: 

The world for gain and giving,
  The game for man and boy,
The life that joys in living,
  The faith that lives in joy.