On roaring iron down the Holloway Road
    The red trams and the brown trams pour,
And little each yellow-faced jolted load
    Knows of the fast-shut grained oak door.

From Canonbury, Dalston and Mildmay Park
    The old North London shoots in a train
To the long black platform, gaslit and dark,
    Oh Highbury Station once and again.

Steam or electric, little they care,
    Yellow brick terrace or terra-cotta hall,
White-wood sweet shop or silent square,
    That the LORD OF THE SCRIPTURES IS LORD OF ALL.

Away from the barks and the shouts and the greetings,
    Psalm-singing over and love-lunch done,
Listening to the Bible in their room for meetings,
    Old Sandemanians are hidden from the sun.