Nothing but proses and reps and con!
O for the future when I'm a man,
With no more Virgil to learn and scan,
And no one to say to me, "Please, go on!"
Chorus. Yet the time may come, as the years go by,
When your heart will thrill
At the thought of the Hill,
And the proses so long and the con so dry.
"Raining in torrents again," they say:
The field is a slippery, miry marsh;
But duty is duty, though sometimes harsh,
And "footer" is "footer" whatever the day.
Chorus. Yet the time may come, as the years go by,
When your heart will thrill
At the thought of the Hill,
And the slippery fields and the raining sky.
Five hundred faces alive with glee!
Trials are over; the term is done,
With all its glory and toil and fun;
And boyhood's a dream of the past for me!
Chorus. Yet the time may come, though you scarce know why,
When your eyes will fill
At the thought of the Hill,
And the wild regret of the last good-bye.
Harry How.
The head master's house.
