1 E'en now the heron treads the wet Slush swamps of Goosey pool, Now proses vex my Latin set That first set upper school. 2 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 3 E'en now the gorze is out in bloom Along the Torridge valley, E'en now the sparrow meets his doom From catapult & 'Sally' 4 E'en now to Corey's bath they flock Old comrades, after three. E'en now the lower schoolboys 'rock' The Bideford bargee. 5 For me no call bell rings alas! For me, no proses are, No lounging on the playground grass No sails across the Bar. 6 The hot winds blow, the punkah flaps Incessant, to and fro. Ah well for those most lucky chaps 'Who lark at Westward Ho! 7 The sunlight thro' the palm tree falls, Full on the whitewashed roof, And worse than any college 'calls' Are printers' calls for proof. 8 More dread than any sudden squall A careless prose could raise, Are people who drop in to call, And take my busiest days. 9 Grimmer than any 'thousand lines', The lines that I must read More crabbed than Euclid's worst designs A correspondent's screed. 10 What wonder, while the punkah flaps, And hell like hot winds blow, I envy those too lucky chaps Who work at Westward Ho!
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