The Song
of an Outsider





E'en now the heron treads the wet
Slush swamps of Goosey pool,
Now proses vex my Latin set
That first set upper school.

E'en now, across the summer air,
The call bell's clamour floats,
Down to the weed hung rock pools where
The Juniors sail their boats

E'en now the gorze is out in bloom
Along the Torridge valley,
E'en now the sparrow meets his doom
From catapult & 'Sally'

E'en now to Corey's bath they flock
Old comrades, after three.
E'en now the lower schoolboys 'rock'
The Bideford bargee.

For me no call bell rings alas!
For me, no proses are,
No lounging on the playground grass
No sails across the Bar.

The hot winds blow, the punkah flaps
Incessant, to and fro.
Ah well for those most lucky chaps
'Who lark at Westward Ho!

The sunlight thro' the palm tree falls,
Full on the whitewashed roof,
And worse than any college 'calls'
Are printers' calls for proof

More dread than any sudden squall
A careless prose could raise,
Are people who drop in to call,
And take my busiest days.

Grimmer than any 'thousand lines',
The lines that I must read
More crabbed than Euclid's worst designs
A correspondent's screed

What wonder , while the punkah flaps,
And hell like hot winds blow,
I envy those too lucky chaps
Who work at Westward Ho!