Poem by Henry Newbolt

The Schoolfellow

Our game was his but yesteryear;
  We wished him back; we could not know
The self-same hour we missed him here
  He led the line that broke the foe.

Blood-red behind our guarded posts
  Sank as of old and dying day;
The battle ceased; the mingled hosts
  Weary and cheery went their way:

"To-morrow well may bring," we said,
  "As fair a fight, as clear a sun."
Dear lad, before the world was sped,
  For evermore thy goal was won.

1. Fidele's Grassy Tomb
2. Pereunt Et Imputantur
3. The Old Superb
4. From Generation to Generation
5. Master and Man

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