The Gentlemen Of Oxford

The sunny streets of Oxford Are lying still and bare, No sound of voice or laughter Rings through the golden air; And, chiming from her belfry, No longer Christchurch calls The eager, boyish faces To gather in her halls.

The colleges are empty, Only the sun and wind Make merry in the places The lads have left behind. But, when the trooping shadows Have put the day to flight, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come homing through the night.

From France they come, and Flanders, From Mons, and Marne and Aisne, From Greece and from Gallipoli They come to her again; From the North Sea's grey waters, From many a grave unknown, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come back to claim their own.

The dark is full of laughter, Boy laughter, glad and young, They tell the old-time stories, The old-time songs are sung; They linger in her cloisters, They throng her dewy meads, Till Isis hears their calling And laughs among her reeds.

But, when the east is whitening To greet the rising sun, And slowly, over Carfax, The stars fade, one by one, Then, when the dawn-wind whispers Along the Isis shore, The Gentlemen of Oxford Must seek their graves once more.

The Temple Press, Letchworth, England