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 jammed and the Colonel dead
And the Regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed its banks,
And England's far, and honor a name--
But the voice of a school boy 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 the sons must hear,
And none that hears it dares forget.

Thus they all with a joyful mind--
Bear their life like a torch in flame--
And failing, fling to the host behind,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"