- THERE'S a breathless hush in the Close
to-night --
- Ten to make and the match to win --
- A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
- An hour to play and the last man in.
- And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
- Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
- But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
- "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
- The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
- Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
- The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
- And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
- The river of death has brimmed his banks,
- And England's far, and Honor a name,
- But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
- "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
- This is the word that year by year
- While in her place the School is set
- Every one of her sons must hear,
- And none that hears it dare forget.
- This they all with a joyful mind
- Bear through life like a torch in flame,
- And falling fling to the host behind --
- "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
- Sir Henry Newbolt
|