HENRY NEWBOLy
My son, the oath is yours: the end
Is His, Who built the world of strife, Who gave His children Pain for friend,
And Death for surest hope of life. To-day and here the fight 's begun,
Of the great fellowship you're free, Henceforth the School and you are one,
And what You are, the race shall be.
God send you fortune* yet be sure,
Among the lights that gleam and pass, You'll live to follow none more pure
Than that which glows on yonder brass: 'Qut pocul htnc? the legend 5 s writ,
The frontier-grave is far away l Qm ante diem femt
Sed mtles, sed 'pro f atria?
��EDEN PHILLPOTTS
1862- Man's Days
A SUDDEN wakin', a sudden weepin', A h'l suckin', a h'l slcepin'; A cheePs full joys an' a chcePs short sorrows, Wi' a power o' faith in gert to-morrows.
Young blood red-hot an' the love of a maid,
One glorious day as'll never fade;
Some shadows, some sunshine, some triumphs, some tears,
And a gatherin' weight o' the flyin' years.
�� �
