Sir Henry Newbolt: Все стихи поэта

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Ye have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughter’d and made an end,

Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:

What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?’

‘Blood for our blood,’ they said.

He laugh’d: ‘If one may settle the score for five,

I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:

I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.’

‘You shall die at dawn,’ said they.

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!"