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 the 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 its banks, And England’s far, and Honour a name, But the voice of
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