He rises at seven with military precision,

Shaves with boiled water, the days first descision,

At eighty two most he once new are dead,

Finishes his washing and then makes his bed.

The old man opens his door and finds on his crate, 

A loaf of bread, sugar, tea at he’s glad it’s not late,

He potters around preparing tea and toast,

A picture of his wife looks down like a ghost.

She died when she was thirty a long time past,

His rheumatic hands pour tea slowly, it will spill if it’s fast,

He does not look at her picture today,

His thoughts and his mind is so far away.

Dressing carefully he puts on a gloomy black shawl,

A black hat, from behind the door, scarf and all,

Walks down through grey cloisters to chapel this morn,

A crucifix hangs over a manger where Christ was born.

When he moves you notice the breed,

An old whipcord of a body, a man of importance, indeed,

After chapel it’s a walk down to Charterhouse cllub for men,

A nod to the porter, a coin, then into his den.

There are sixty old Colonel Newcomes who have seen better days,

Gentlemen by birth who fought many wars and faught many ways,

The Charterhouse goos back some four hundred years,

They get a pound a week, a cloak, a hat for all their past fears,

To get this one pound there is one demand to say,

That they attend chapel just once every day.