The roads look up to Holy Cross,
The sturdy towers look down,
And show a kindly word to all
Who pass by Worcester Town;
And once you'd see the boys at play,
Or marching cap and gown.

The gallant towers at Holy Cross
Are silent night and day,
A few young lads are left behind
Who still may take their play;
The Cross and Flag look out afar
For them that went away.

And mine are gone, says Beaven Hall,
To camps by hill and plain,
And mine along by Newport Sea,
Says the high tower of O'Kane;
I follow mine, Alumni calls,
Across the watery main.

Their sires were in the old Brigade
That won at Fontenoy,
Stood true at Washington's right hand,
that were his faith and joy:
>From Holy Cross to Fredericksburg
Is many a gallant boy.