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. A Sower
2. Felix Antonius
3. Northumberland
4. Ionicus
5. By the Hearth-Stone

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