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Poem

The old doors of Twickenham our footfall hears not again
The willows by dry canals lodge no longer sad complain
The ploughs are rusted in the field, and O the rich loam yields
Not we dream when tenured to our books, or the windy fields
All arable land is senseless used for building broken banks
And endless housing, where youngmen suffocate to dream
And many are gone, forlorn, and deserting our proud ranks
But you hold on, and patent every groan and distant scream
From bell to bell you make us feel our purpose in our team.
For you then I write a tribute to honor and esteem.
                                            ii
Many in individual pursuit so excellent 
Has done, but none can shine as bright among us, none recent
Nor in the ancient pass bares record more faithfully, keep
Us trimmed like lamp or sail our scattered compassion to feel
To every reunion and forum you reach out
And keep us on the ball, and when any should rise or fall
You make it the love of all. Yours the heart patient and devout
Yours the loyal trust, the rock ... the sweet summit of the call.
Earth has nothing to render for service so true, we can
Give nothing to measure the worth, the soul of such a man.

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