|
Mortarboard, gown, hood and lace come |
|
guide me in learning, in ascension |
|
where minds may meet and twitters |
|
tweet in modern Latin, in declension. |
|
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing |
|
with one tongue, forever young, |
|
let us follow better things. |
|
In saintly word and perfect grammar, |
|
to Academia's lofty space. |
|
The trivium, quadrivium, all baser |
|
thoughts now to efface. |
|
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing |
|
with one tongue, forever young, |
|
let us follow better things. |
|
Cruel Bunter-bashing, cane-a-thrashing, |
|
lines, detention, soon forgot. |
|
O dark ploy! This grammar school boy |
|
has paid the price and bought the lot. |
|
In the quiet hours of life's twilight, |
|
old school ties and photographs, |
|
I call to mind the sore behind, the |
|
tears, the last and longest laughs. |
|
Empty desks and inkwells, darkened |
|
chapels, cobweb corridors silent now. |
|
Ghostly purple robes and dusty trencher, |
|
what could be holier than thou? |
|
O Domine, O Magister - we aspiring angels sing |
|
with one tongue, forever young, |
|
let us follow better things. |
|
Meliora sequamur: may we follow better things. |
