The Soliders’ Guest House – Christmas 1916

There’s a welcome for the weary,
After marching-oh! so dreary­
Up and down:
In summer nice and airy
And in winter warm and glary;
It’s the Tipperary Tea Room in the town.
Oh! the plates of bread and butter,
Oh! the patience of the cutter:
Not a frown!
A cup of tea a penny!
No wonder there are many
Who flock to Tipperary in the town.
Instead of bombs, their plate is
Filled with sausages and taties
Done to brown:
And in place of sentry duty
There are jellies sweet and fruity
In this homely Tipperary in the town.
Yes, the dairy milk is foamy,
And they find it far more homey
Than the Crown:
So we’re busy taking money
And it really isn’t funny
That they love the Tipperary in the town.

Garden Club – Christmas 1916


I. M. Holmes – D. Hinxman – M. Sun
K. Newsom – P.  Du Buisson – B. Medlicott
W. Poynton – B. Buxton

II. J. Chapman N. – N. Randall
P. Clarke – J. Hinxman – C. Harrison
B. Fagge – F. Fagge

III. W. Wort – E. Hudson – P. Word
C. Mackworth – P. Purmewan – M. Rose
H. Elworthy – H. Toms.

Mrs. Leys’ picture, which has formerly been held by the owners of the best cultivated garden, will now be presented every term to the House which gains the highest average of marks for its gardens. It was won last term by Fawcett House.


Twenty poems were sent in this year, and the Cup has been won by Mary Dalston. The three best poems are printed.


He-led me through the gate of age-old stone,
We stood in sunlight, but I felt the cool
Sweet shadow we had left. Then down the path
Whose red tiles lay so primly ‘twixt the beds
Of fragrant lavender. And still lie led.
The scent of roses (crimson ones) was there,
Although the bushes were a wide lawn’s space
Behind. At last he paused, I, too and stayed.
We laid us down upon the glad green turf,
Our thoughts went upward through the chinks of blue
Between the copper-beech leaves;  then I spoke:
“Who art thou?” and he said, “Ye know me not?”
“The scent of roses, and the gateway’s shade,
The greenness of the grass, and hum of bees,
The tint of flowers silvered by the dew,
The hush of dawn, and evening’s golden peace
The Spirit of this garden; this am I.
The little children know me.”
-Then I awoke.

ULYSSES (Mary Dalston).

(Lines supposed to be written by a prisoner of war in Germany.)

Midsummer’s Night! Oh would I were
Now at home, in the garden there,
For, down the gravelled walks I know
The Pinks and red Carnations grow,
And the Roses, the Roses are in bloom,
Their fragrance piercing through the gloom
Of a summer night. The Willows too,
Are bending low, as Willows do.
To kiss the silent stream below,
Whose sad mysterious waters flow
Silently thence. There ‘neath the gaze
Of the pure pale stars and the golden haze
Of a harvest moon-there, there would I lie
And scan the inscrutable sweep of sky.

Around me comrades sweat and snore
As we herd together on the floor
But I am longing to be there,
Out of this hot and noisome air,
To lie on the mossy river bank
And smell the dewy earth, and dank
Scents of the stream, and see
On the other side of the lawn from me
The lilies shimmering tall and white,
Like silver stars on a frosty night.
And hear the night wind sob in the trees
And sometimes shrilling down the breeze
The Piper’s sweet unearthly notes.
Would I might watch when softly floats
The morning o’er the rim of night,
And scan in the magic misty light
Each pansy’s bright uplifted face.
Then rise, and soft begin to pace
Familiar walks, beside the seas
Of glowing bloom and shrubs and trees.
Oh! on a night like this I’d squander
All that I have, once more to wander
At home, at home in the garden there
Where all is cool and fresh and fair,
In the silent splendid night that brings
So many mystic glorious things.
Around me comrades sweat and snore
Herded like cattle on the floor.

M. B. M.


‘Twas in the summer-time – the month of June
When filled was all my garden with delight
And ev’ry living thing raised some sweet tune
Of thankful happiness by day and night
That as I sat among my roses fair
Lulled by the drowsy humming of the bees,
It seemed as though a voice was speaking there
Amid the flow’rs; ’twas just as if the breeze
Had whispered; and the words I heard were these:-

Long, long ago, when Time was young,
Of purest white all roses were;
No prickles from their smooth stems sprung
They were the fairest of the fair.

But one, most fair of all her race,
Each day became more proud and vain
That she possessed such beauteous grace,
And sought o’er all the flow’rs to reign.

The Master the Flowers came,
And standing by the Rose’s side
He spake; for with much grief and shame
He saw, as all, her grievous pride.

“Why keepest thou not my Commands?
Why hastthou not Humility?
Thy beauty is not thine. My Hands
Yea mine, have made and fashioned thee.

“For this thy sin – wear evermore
Sharp thorns upon thy stems and leaves.
Like those that once for all I bore­
Repent – I pardon her that grieves.”

The Rose with shame bent low her head,
And o’er her face there came a flush;
Humbled – was she; remorse and dread
Both did her haughty spirit crush.

Long years have come and passed away,
But every rose her thorns still wears
In mem’ry of that far-off day
Of pride, of pardon, and of tears.

The soft voice ceased, and all was quiet and still,
Except a gentle rustling ‘mid the leaves;
The sun was sinking fast behind the hill,
And swallows flew to nests beneath the eaves.
The night fell fast, and darkness spread her veil
The fleeting hours of day grew less and less;
The whisp’ring roses knew who told that tale,
But I – I knew not – I could only guess.


A Literary Club Contribution – Christmas 1916


His feet upon the time-enduring hills,
His head amid the glory of the stars,
He stands, unchangeable, yet ever new­
The ruler, and the law by which we live.
From the great distance came he when earth first
Was made; and when earth is not, then will turn,
Merge, and be submerged in the great
Beyond Where time and all things wend – Eternity.

M. DALSTON, Upper V.

Benedicamus Domino – Summer 1916

All beneath a shining sky
Yellow fields are harvested:
Deep in grass the apples lie,
Sunshine sweetened, cool and red.
For the Father of the Poor
Sets His watch with flaming sword
High shove the threshing floor
Thanks be unto Thee, O LORD.

In the twilight meadows now
Trail the white September mists;
Damsons, heavy on the bough,
Gleam like shadowed amethysts.
Fiercely sweet are days like these,
Wrapt in peace and yellow suns.
While across the narrow seas
Sounds the drumming of the guns.

These are things that have not been
In our long prosperity
Beauty passionately seen
When it stands in jeopardy;
Vivid love that grips the breath,
Tears that break for very pride.
Life through violence and death-
LORD, for these be glorified.

For the proudly guarded lips,
Streets where men nor strive nor cry;
For the armies and the ships,
Youth and laughing chivalry;
For the things that shall be won
Clean and splendid from the flame
For the brave new life begun-
Blessed be Thy holy Name.

We have sinned the sins of peace;
Called to serve, we have not served;
Such a war for righteousness
We desired not nor deserved.
We are glad for this,- that life
Caught us like a hurricane,
Slashed the walls with quivering knife,
Tore a space for sight again.

They shall see that shall be born
That remote resplendent thing,
Of the which, for spent and torn,
All the world is travailing
Lift your hearts above the years,
Thank our LORD not once nor twice
For the horror and the tears,
Bitterness and sacrifice.

September, 1916.


Garden Club – Summer 1916


First Price
S. Yorke P. Clarke H. Elworthy
J. Carey J. Hinxman H. Toms
C. Harrison

Second Price
D. Hinixman K. Newson A. Armitage
M. Holmes P. Du Buisson N. Preece
M. Sim B. Medlicott

Third Price
J. Chapman M. Stevens-Guille M. Ainslie
N. Randall I. Usher

Miss Douglas gave the prizes in the gardens on Wednesday, May 17th.
The following Poems won prizes in a competition for the best poem on Gardens.


In the sunny summer-time when all around is gay,
And skies are blue, and trees are green, and little elfins play
Why then –
My little garden is full of all delight,
From early misty morning
To still and starry night.

The roses in my garden are red and white and pink,
And the dew-drops on their petals ask the bees to come and drink.
Oh then –
My little garden is a sight for tired eyes,
Full of lilies and carnations,
And of gaudy butterflies.

But it’s different in winter when all the flowers have gone.
And the roses have departed, and the soil looks cold and lone,
Even then –
I know in one corner of the bed
I shall find a modest violet
With its dainty purple head.

My flowers have a language, only not like yours and mine,
It’s like the rain in summer, it’s so small and light and fine,
But then –
Only few can hear it, and I am one of those,
And I won’t tell a creature
What my flowers to me disclose.

My garden’s a like kingdom of which I am the King,
And sometimes if I’m careful I can hear the fairies sing.
And then –
Why, I’m as happy as happy as call be,
And I wish that all small children
Could be a king like me.

SUN-WORSHIPPER (Ursula Armitage).


The snow lay thick o’er all the land,
The flowers slept beneath the ground;
Majestic way the scene and grand,
So silent everything around.

Soon came the warm spring sun again,
And melted all the snow away;
Then forth there peeped in hedge and lane
The tiny leaf-buds of the May.

The fairies took a snowflake white,
And made of it a tiny bell
Which softly rang both day and night,
That Spring was coming soon to tell.

So when I see the snowdrops sweet
Peep from beneath their soft brown bed,
I know they are come forth to meet
The springtime. and that winter’s fled.

HIBISCUS (Sheila Dimsey.)

To Sew Or Not To Sew: A Poem – Christmas 1915

With eager heart and eager hand,
We stitched and stitched, with tightening thread,
Bags, to be later filled with sand,
To shield a gallant Tommy’s head.

Hark! from the trenches rings the cry –
“Oh! help us in our deadly strife;
Provide us bags, or else we die,
For, lack of these costs many a life.”

But now from War Officialdom
Issues the order – “Cease your task.”
It fell upon us like a bomb,
And what to do, we humbly ask?

For still there floats the same refrain,
We can but feel its plaintive touch,
“Send all you can,” and then again,
Send more: we cannot have too much.”


November 1915: A Poem – Christmas 1915

How sadly ends the short November day,
The skies are gray,
And far away
Our brave ones fight, and aching hearts still pray
O Lord! When shall all discord cease?
When dawn the day of peace?
And tears be wiped away.

They rest in peace, those Sons that mothers gave
England to save,
Through tears that lave,
And cleanse our land! But still we crave
O Lord, make discords cease,
Bring in the day of peace,
Save, Lord! O save.

The trees are bare, the golden leaves are shed,
We bow the head,
Tears for the dead
Filling the eyes from which all joy has fled!
And still we cry, Make wars to cease,
Bring back beloved Peace,
Enough of blood is shed!

Nay! Leaves may fall, but ever lives the tree!
And even we
On bended knee
Look up to God and hope once more to see
The day when wars shall cease,
The reign of blessed Peace
Lasting eternally.