Ah, for a winged and wounding pen,
In vigour dipped, to pierce the age
When girls are athletes, not the men,
And toughness dwindles from the stage!--
When purblind poet cannot see
That in the games he wishes barred,
Eager, and hungry to be free
As when it triumphed on the sea,
The Viking spirit battles hard,
My Sons!

If you have need of flabbier times,
Colensos, Stormbergs, Spion Kops,
Tell cricketers to take to rhymes,
And smash at once the cross-bar props.
_When_ sportsmen, tied to sport, refuse
To offer lead the loyal breast,
To tramp for miles in bloody shoes,
To smirch their souls, to crack their thews,
_Then_ let the poet rail his best,
My Hearts!

Aye, if our social state be planned
Devoid of giant games of ball,
Macaulay's visitor will stand
The earlier on the crumbled wall.
Nerve, daring, sprightliness, and pluck
Improve by noble exercise;
The wish to soar above the ruck,
The power to laugh at dirty luck