Vitaï Lampada |
by Henry Newbolt
(1862 - 1938). |
There's a breathless hush in the Close
tonight - |
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 the 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's
dead, |
And the regiment's blind with dust
and smoke. |
The river of death has brimmed his
banks, |
And England's far, and Honour a name, |
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies
the ranks: |
'Play up! play up! and play the game!' |
This is the world 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 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!' |