| The time you won your town the race | |
| We chaired you through the market-place; | |
| Man and boy stood cheering by, | |
| And home we brought you shoulder-high. | |
|
| To-day, the road all runners come, | 5 |
| Shoulder-high we bring you home, | |
| And set you at your threshold down, | |
| Townsman of a stiller town. | |
|
| Smart lad, to slip betimes away | |
| From fields where glory does not stay, | 10 |
| And early though the laurel grows | |
| It withers quicker than the rose. | |
|
| Eyes the shady night has shut | |
| Cannot see the record cut, | |
| And silence sounds no worse than cheers | 15 |
| After earth has stopped the ears: | |
|
| Now you will not swell the rout | |
| Of lads that wore their honours out, | |
| Runners whom renown outran | |
| And the name died before the man. | 20 |
|
| So set, before its echoes fade, | |
| The fleet foot on the sill of shade, |
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