Winder
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Oh, Eton hath her river,
And Clifton hath her Down,
And Winchester her cloisters
And immemorial town;
But ours the mountain fastness,
The deep romantic ghylls,
Where Clough and Dee and Rawthey
Come singing from the hills.
For it isn’t our ancient lineage –
There are others as old as we;
And it isn’t our pious founders,
Though we honour their memory;
‘Tis the hills that have stood around us,
Unchanged since our days began;
It is Cautley, Calf and Winder,
That make the Sedbergh man.
Not ours the crowded highway,
The dust, the heat, the glare;
We see a vaster prospect,
We breathe a larger air;
We watch the heather redden,
We hear the curlew cry,
About us is the moorland,
Above the windswept sky.
For it isn’t…
Oh! Stout and strong his sinew,
And clear and cool his brain,
Who knows the joy of facing
The mountain wind and rain,
Beneath him in the valley
He hears the motor hoot,
But none may stand on Winder
Save him who goes on foot.
For it isn’t…
So when in days hereafter
In tamer lands you dwell
Or in some fevered city
Far off from beck and fell,
As boyhood’s days grow dimmer,
The memory will not die
Of Winder’s clear-cut outline
Against an evening sky.
For it isn’t…
F.B. Malim
A.W. Ogilvy
The Long Run
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At Olympia, far away,
In the boyhood of the world,
There were glorious games, they say –
Discs were thrown, and spears were hurled;
Came the athletes, strong and stately,
Leapt and ran, and wrestled greatly,
While a nation stood and wondered,
And a shout to heav’n was thundered:
Strain and struggle, might and main;
Scorn defeat and laugh at pain,
Never shall you strive in vain
In the Long Run!
Sedbergh in the hardy north,
She her runners, too, can show;
Sends her fleet Athenians forth;
Trains her Spartans in the snow!
Herald march the blast is sounding –
Rugged hills the course surrounding –
Don your jerseys, make you ready,
Up and off, lads, swift and steady!
Strain and struggle, etc.
Not so fiercely as at first,
Toiling on to Cautley Bridge;
Down the hill-side with a burst,
On to Baugh Fell, up the ridge;
Plunging through the tangled heather,
Garsdale finds ye less together;
Panting breast and straining sinew –
Set your teeth, lads, and show what’s in you!
Strain and struggle, etc.
At Olympia, far away,
When the victor wore the crown,
Breathing marble, burning lay,
Made immortal his renown.
What tho’ Fate hath given to Winder
No Praxiteles and Pindar,
Yet her sons, who bravely bear them,
Sedbergh in her heart shall wear them!
Strain and struggle, etc.
Words: R St J Ainslie
Music: P A Thomas