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,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsman of a stiller town.
. . .
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.