Ole Farmer Leighton Salmon

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.