Medley

I do not wish to imply by these criticisms that the film is not a success. As with all things, it could have been better; but that would have taken time and money which are simply not there for the taking. There are, I think, two sentences to be passed in judgement. If you think in pictures and if you think about the School, one of the pictures is likely to be here on the film. The images are something like everybody's memory of the School. D.J.H.

FROM THE FIRST YEAR White Bird

C. W. A.

Conservation is a word That may apply To animals, not to machines. Do we ever digress To think what a mess We make of people's dreams? There are White Birds That fly with grace Touching the stratosphere. They have support In an American court. How much do they have over here? Is this great success To be dashed like the rest While the critics gladly applaud? Or all come together Make the Birds live forever In the spirit of true concord. * * *

Bottles

C. T. G. B Bottles are receptacles, which can be tall or stumpy, Bottles can be thin, fat or even bumpy, Bottles are similar to people in their capacity. Bottles are all sorts of colours, brown, blue or green. Bottles can be made of glass, plastic or even metal, But what is in them is the thing that counts. * * *

Pleasant Summer Scene

The birds are singing in the trees, Children are playing in the open fields, The smell of freshly cut grass mingles With the sweet smell of summer. Bees dart from flower to flower, 50 A. J. D.

In their never-ending search for nectar, The sun shines relentlessly, From a deep blue, cloudless sky. Yet now and then a sharp click, Followed by generous applause, Disturbs the peace and tranquillity, Of this 'Pleasant Summer Scene', For a game of cricket has begun. People watch, bathed in warm sunlight, Sipping a cool drink or eating ice-cream, While the batsmen defy the fast bowlers.

FROM THE COMMON ROOM

Cancer — a Prayer J. P. Rigby

Unmentionable. It used to be unmentionable; but now it's gossip. CANCER? — Well, it's nothing. Come on, say it. "CANCER"— There; it doesn't bite. "CANCER. CANCER. CANCER." There — it's tamed. TAMED? Oh no! Cancer is not tamed.

Cancer — God's answer to complacency. Not me! Please, God, not me — Anyone but me. Cancer — God's Ace of Trumps. Spades! Cancer — a lottery; a grim roulette. Who's next? Will I be next? The cold touch; slow advance; long torture. Inexorable. Cancer The Crab.

Of Zodiac, the Crab. CANCER. Cold, fishy, cruel crab; Creature that crawls, and feeds on carrion flesh. Cancer, the Crab; cruel, cold. Not the dead, red, crab of the slab, Not the ghostly crab of the pool. No. CANCER. The cowardly crab: Spiny, spidery, leprous-white; Cruel crab of dank, dark caves; That scuttles, hidden, cowardly; That strikes! Retreats, and strikes!

End it! Smash it with a stone! Vain hope; its offEpring scuttle now, and bite; and bite. Smash one; smash ten; a thousand more attack, and bite; and bite. Cancer probing, gripping, nipping — on nerve, on bone, in lung. Cancer twisting, cancer gripping. Pitiless.

Cancer feeding — Insatiable. Will I be next? It runs in the family, like green eyes. It spawned, and hatched and multiplied. Cancer — the Crab. Of Zodiac the inscrutable, the shifty one. "Don't fret" you say. "Why talk of Crabs in caves? Of monstrous, scuttling hordes? — Just nightmares!" "Why talk of stones, of smashing crabs with stones? Of myriads more spawned forth, all leprous-white to feed on human flesh? — Don't fret" you add. "Today it's not like that. It's tame. See; it's tame—the Cancer ward, all clinical. Familiar — no need for fear of caves. The friendly nursing-sister waits; The jolly visitor; the trolley with your tea.

Cosy. Like home. No cave." And so, I'm reassured. No Cave! No nightmare. No foul, dank cave; No scuttling, leprous creatures of the sea. Cosy — of course. Then — WHAT IS THAT?

That thing? That shrouded thing? By God! But I DID see! Hidden? Not quite! The gasping stare. The grey-green skin. The haunted glance. The terror of the CRAB.

Drugs — Sedation — Let's pretend! But do not catch the eye, the dull, sedated eye;

The eye — the dull eye and drugged brain. THEY KNOW! The clinical ward, the cosy bed — All sham! The cave. The cave is real. The rock is wet, and green with slime; And from the foetid dark they scuttle — A myriad furtive Crabs. They scuttle, probe and bite, and bite again. You smash them with a stone and more Crabs come. — No use to plead, or scream or fight or run. We look in from the entrance of the cave; And weep. And when the tide comes in at last — into the cave. And the Crabs creep off to wait — we do not enter. We pretend: No Cave — just a Ward! — Cosy, clinical. Oh God! Not me!

Amen.

Some Songs from the Pageant,

Poorlinus Was Here

D. G. Cummin HE MASTER SINGERS' PROLOGUE: (Tune, While Shepherds Watched) When St. Paulinus came from Kent In 627 A.D., He took a look across the Trent To see what he could see. King Edwin held the power and might In this city called Eoforic, And he said it would be alright To found a northern Bishopric. Paulinus built a wooden church And a school to grow up with it; And from our long and deep research We'll show you how he did it. A well tried path the school has trod Since back in 627; Our patron is that man of God Who holds the keys of Heaven. From thirteen hundred and fifty years We've made a few extractions; Now some's for laughter: some's for tears; —But there are no vulgar fractions. So please relax, although we say This won't be a sensation; We think it's not too bad a way To start Commemoration.

PAULINUS'S SONG, 627 (Tune, Early One Morning) I've come from Canterbury As a teacher and a missionary To show you Christianity And the straight and narrow way.

Chorus (after each verse): Oh, St. Paulinus, Please don't malign us; Start your task is all we ask; Paulinus rules OK. I don't want to offend you, But I really must amend you, And I strongly recommend you, To the straight and narrow way.

Chorus: To Rome I'm not returning Till I've built a place of learning; And soon you'll all be turning To the straight and narrow way.

So if you want your little lad To do much better than his Dad, To teach him I'll be very glad-And we might take girls one day.

Chorus:

SONG OF THE PETERITE SMOKERS, 1069 (Tune, Austria) Smoking has become our passion And we ought to cut it out; It's a rather nasty fashion, And it's harmful, there's no doubt.

Sinister voice: Every packet has a Government warning. But we think it's rather manly, Even though it costs a lot; And our Dads say, rather wanly: `Well, at least it isn't pot.'

SONG OF THE CITY WATCHMEN (Tune, Drink to me Only) We are the watchmen of this city; We usually turn up late; We think it's all a terrible pity That crime pays at such a rate. We do our best to keep it down, Without getting any encouragement; But, when there's trouble in the town, It's us what gets the disparagement. * * *

DICK TURPIN'S SONG (Tune, Good King Wenceslas) I'm a gentleman of the road, My life is bright and breezy; Although I'm of no fixed abode I find things pretty easy. If I meet you one dark night, When I need a fiver; I'll be brief, but quite polite: `Stand, Sir, and deliver.' * * *

THE VISITING BISHOP'S SONG, 1977 (Tune, Early One Morning) Is this re-incarnation? I've got a strange sensation That this was my foundation Thirteen fifty years ago.

Chorus: Oh, St. Paulinus, How do you find us? Has our best withstood the test Of time's eternal flow? 54