Henry Newbolt

Drake, he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Captain, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the roundshot, list'ning for the drum, And dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

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!'

Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud and strong.

The work of the world must still be done, And minds are many though truth be one.

To set the cause above renown, To love the game above the prize.