TO rise in the grey of the morning
When the sun has not risen from bed,
A dark scowl our faces adorning,
Surmounted by each tousled head.
Oh, it’s not for our joy, for it’s cruel;
But we must, like the rest, take our gruel!
To wander a corridor lonely,
A-knocking on each frowning door,
The silence of morn broken only
By a knock and a lingering snore;
Then the regular ringing till eight,
And a closing at last of the gate!
14. 3. 1928