The School Song on this site is from a 78 RPM disc which was produced
in 1951/52. The recording was made in the School Hall. The whole school sang
under the direction of Mr. A. T. Duffield, with Mr. A. G. Gale on the organ.
The words were written by Mr.Seaborne.
NOTE by Charles Cook
"It would be an interesting exercise to place them before today's mixed pupils for a reaction"
Fill full your lungs and set ringing the rafters-
Fie on the fellow who dares to be dumb-
Roar to the rhythm of flying threequarters,
Steady the heave of the shouldering scrum,
Praise of the gifts made
By Bablake’s begettors:
We are their debtors,
But they shall be paid.
Summer comes smiling; now willow’s staunch lovers
Flash forth your blades from their unctuous sleep!
Sing to the tune of a crack through the covers-
Muted the hush for a catch in the deep-
Praise of the gifts made
By Bablake’s begettors:
We are their debtors,
But they shall be paid.
Manhood’s impatient, and over the threshold
Steadfastly beckons our benison of spires;
Forth must we go then and stablish our foothold,
Loyally serving the land of our sires,
Worthy the name made
By Wheatleyan brothers,
In service to others
Our debt shall be paid!
The Song of The Gifts
Isabella’s penitence,
Thomas Wheatley’s treasure trove,
Threads with which kind providence
Robe of bounty for us wove:
Praise we them and others too,
For their Gifts so long ago,
Green Gift, Fairfax; Bayley, Blue;
Black of Baker, Billing, Crow!
Stand! The men these Gifts shall rear:
Brave, like Wheatley’s lion strong;
Reaching starward, scorning fear,
Valiant men to right the wrong;
Quick to learn from those of old,
Fit to serve the coming age,
All the future theirs to mould;
All the past their heritage!
Beginning of Term
Wisdom find and hold her;
And her good fruits attain!
Blaze and not smoulder;
Languor disdain!
Bow down your shoulder:
Put your neck into her chain!
Bow down your shoulder:
Put your neck into her chain!
Suffer wisdom’s halter:
Fret not at her rein!
Let not courage falter:
Grieve not at her pain:
For to burn upon wisdom’s altar
Is there to be born not slain!
For to burn upon wisdom’s altar
Is there to be born not slain!
Precepts are these to ponder,
Would you increase in grace:
To be free, free and stronger,
Wisdom’s restraints embrace!
Her chains are a robe of honour;
Her bands are as purple lace:
Her chains are a robe of honour;
Her bands are as purple lace!
Let there be no dejection;
Never a sigh or groan!
Strive to achieve perfection:
Patience your cornerstone.
So, finding a man of perception,
Let your feet wear his threshold down!
So, finding a man of perception,
Let your feet wear his threshold down!
Seek out the elder’s concourse,
And cleave to him that is wise!
Digest each virtuous discourse;
All prudent instruction prize!
It’s a hard road to traverse,
If hopes you would realise!
It’s a hard road to traverse,
If hopes you would realise!
End of Term
Come at last the time of parting,
Time of second weaning;
On life’s road you must be starting
Life has now more meaning.
You can have a share in moulding,
Take a trick at steering;
Steady on your course be holding,
Worthy of your rearing!
New beginnings have their travail,
Bound to be a wrenching;
Boyhoods’ ties you must unravel,
Let there be no blenching!
Banish thoughts of selfish sorrow,
Of complaint no murmur,
Fuzzers you again tomorrow,
In a school that’s sterner!
In the haze your vision blurring,
Youthful hardships dwindle:
Appetite for life if stirring,
Great ambitions kindle.
Banish thoughts of blind regretting;
Get yourselves in fettle!
Star ward be your courses’ setting.
Lion-like your mettle!