The Schoolfellow

A poem by Henry Newbolt

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.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'The Schoolfellow' by Henry Newbolt

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy