more, where a couple of hours soon went by. At length the match was over, and masters, boys, and friends were on their way to the speech-room. At half-past six the sweet voices of the school twelve would once again sing the ever-to-be-remembered songs of Harrow, while the whole school would "chorus," with lusty voices and hearts brimming over, so that you might hear the music at the bottom of the Hill. The speech-room presented a picture not to be forgotten—these Harrow boys singing with not a thought of the life that was before them. As they sang, many an old Harrovian sat there silent and listened earnestly, thinking of the days when their ages were the same as those who were merrily shouting:—
Lyon of Preston, yeoman John,
Many a year ago
Built on the Hill that I live on—
A school, that you all may know.
The roll call.
How well "The Niner"—a capital cricketing song, written by Mr. Bowen—was rattled through! It told of a champion of the field—
Of cricketers never a finer,
From Nottinghamshire to China,
But he never could manage a niner!
However, one day he struck a majestical blow, and ran the nine. Unfortunately he came to grief in the last verse:—
And just as the niner was done and entire
He threw himself down to rejoice (and perspire)—
"One short," said the fair and impartial umpire!
Boo-hoo!
So he gave up and went and ate ices,
Of various colours and sizes,
And died of pulmonary phthisis,
Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo! Mr. Welldon turned to me.
Mr. Welldon turned to me.
"One of the youngest boys in the school," he said, as a little fellow came forward, "is about to sing a song written by one of my colleagues—Mr. E. W. Howson. Listen to the words he will sing—he tells of what is in his heart to-day, and the whole school will reply with what he may feel in the days to come."
And the little boy sang, and the school replied:—
Five hundred faces, and all so strange!
Life in front of me—home behind,
I felt like a waif before the wind
Tossed on an ocean of shock and change.
Chorus. Yet the time may come, as the years go by,
When your heart will thrill
At the thought of the Hill,
And the day that you came, so strange and shy.
A quarter to seven! there goes the bell!
The sleet is driving against the pane;
But woe to the sluggard who turns again
And sleeps not wisely but all too well!
Chorus. Yet the time may come, as the years roll by,
When your heart will thrill
At the thought of the Hill,
And the pitiless bell, with its piercing cry.
