# The Muse in Arms/Chivalry of Sport

Chivalry of Sport
LXXXII
The Soldier's Game
Pluck, endurance, submission to discipline, good temper, calmness, judgment, quickness of observation, self-control, are all qualities as essential in a good polo player as in a good soldier.—Badminton Library—Polo.
HERE'S a song of the game we play Out on the burnt maidân, Right from Poona to Mandalay, "Trichy" to far Mooltan.
Sahib and Jemadar here may meet: Victory's laurels rest Still with the daring, bold, and fleet Sons of the East or West.
Rules of precedence too we doff, Etiquette's self is blind; Subalterns ride their Colonel off, Nor does the Colonel mind.
Here's a verse for the steeds we ride, Never a swerve or flinch, Hunter's strength with a racehorse stride, Fourteen hands and an inch.
​Arab, and Waler, and country-bred, Chestnut, and brown, and bay, Sloping shoulder and lean game head, Built to gallop and stay.
Here's to the "one" who'll never shirk, Doing the thing he's told. Here's to the "three" who knows his work Resolute, safe, and bold.
Here's to the "back's" unerring aim Never a moment late. Here's to the man who wins the game Galloping hard and straight.
Blinding and dense the dust-clouds roll, Little the horsemen mind, Racing hard for the distant goal, Thunder of hoofs behind;
On to the ball when the pace is quick, Galloping all the way, Stirrup to stirrup and stick to stick— God, what a game to play!
This is the law that mayn't be broke, This is our chiefest pride; Never a single selfish stroke, Every man for the side.
​This is the toast we love to drink, Every night the same, Bumpers all! and the glasses clink, "Here's to the Soldier's Game!"
George V. Robins.
LXXXIII
Racing Rhymes
HAVE you felt the joy that is almost fear As you face the ditch and are two lengths clear, And you hear the thunder of hoofs in rear? There is just a second when you may see Clear out what the consequence will be— If you go too close or take off too far Comes a rending crash and a sickening jar, A futile arm that you raise to defend, And the battering hoofs that bring the end.
You are stride for stride, and you set your lip As you urge with your heel and raise your whip, And the moment he feels the whipcord sting He leaps from the track with a glorious spring. You hear the crash as the stout birch sunders, And gain a length as your rival blunders.
Colwyn Philipps.
LXXXIV
The River Bathe
WHEN the messenger sunbeam over your bed Silently creeps in the morn; And the dew-drops glitter on flower and tree, Like the tears of hope new-born; When the clouds race by in the painted sky And the wind has a merry tune: Ah! then for the joy of an early dip In the glorious pools of Lune!
Up! up from your bed! Let the sluggards lie In an airy palace of dreams, Respond to the joyous lapwing's call And the song of the burbling streams! Oh, balmy the air, and wondrous fair Are the hills with sunlight crowned, And all the voices of nature seem To mingle in one glad sound.
Then hurry along, for as light as the heart Are the feet on a morning in June, To the banks that are speckled with sunshine and shade, 'Neath the guardian trees of Lune, ​Where the eddies play with the rocks all day In a whirl of fretful fun, And the wavelet kisses the pebbly shore With a mirrored smile from the sun.
A good brave plunge in the crystal cool Of this grand primeval tub: Then glowing you stand on the warm dry rocks By the edge of the foaming Dub. Then homeward along, like the soul of a song That has every note in tune; And dear will the memory always be Of the glorious pools of Lune.
R. W. Sterling.
LXXXV
To a Black Greyhound
SHINING black in the shining light, Inky black in the golden sun, Graceful as the swallow's flight, Light as swallow, wingèd one, Swift as driven hurricane— Double-sinewed stretch and spring, Muffled thud of flying feet, See the black dog galloping, Hear his wild foot-beat.
See him lie when the day is dead, Black curves curled on the boarded floor. Sleepy eyes, my sleepy-head— Eyes that were aflame before. Gentle now, they burn no more; Gentle now and softly warm, With the fire that made them bright Hidden—as when after storm Softly falls the night.
​God of speed, who makes the fire— God of Peace, who lulls the same— God who gives the fierce desire, Lust for blood as fierce as flame— God who stands in Pity's name— Many may ye be or less, Ye who rule the earth and sun: Gods of strength and gentleness, Ye are ever one.
Julian Grenfell.
LXXXVI
Hymn to the Wild Boar
GOD gave the horse for man to ride, And steel wherewith to fight, And wine to swell his soul with pride And women for delight: But a better gift than these all four Was when He made the fighting boar.
The horse is filled with spirit rare, His heart is bold and free; The bright steel flashes in the air, And glitters hungrily. But these were little use before The Lord He made the fighting boar.
The ruby wine doth banish care, But it confounds the head; The fickle fair is light as air, And makes the heart bleed red; But wine nor love can tempt us more When we may hunt the fighting boar.
​When Noah's big monsoon was laid, The land began to ride again, And then the first hog-spear was made By the hands of Tubal Cain; The sons of Shem and many more Came out to ride the fighting boar.
Those ancient Jew boys went like stinks, They knew not reck nor fear, Old Noah knocked the first two jinks, And Nimrod got the spear. And ever since those times of yore True men do ride the fighting boar.
Julian Grenfell.
LXXXVII
Ivinghoe Hill
HERE, where three counties join hands in alliance, Terrace on terrace and glade upon glade, Ashridge looms up like a keep of the giants, Buttressed with beech woods from Aldbury to Gade. Northwards the vale stretches smiling and spacious, Spurs of the Chilterns the far distance fill; Never held dreamland a prospect more gracious: Sunlight and shadow on Ivinghoe hill.
Here, uneffaced by two thousand years' weather, Scarred on the chalk down and stamped in the clay, Linking the Eastland and Westland together, Runs the long line of the great Icknield Way. Here, in the days of the dawning of history, Marched the Iceni to plunder and kill; Over it all hangs the glamour of mystery: Shades of the past under Ivinghoe hill.
Yonder's the knoll where the beacon was lighted, Northward and eastward the red message runs: "Philip's tall ships in the Channel are sighted; Arm, for your country hath need of her sons!" ​Straightway they rose and flung back the Armada. Lives the same spirit within our hearts still? Can England muster such champions to guard her? Mists of the future round Ivinghoe hill.
Hush! A brown form through the gorse stems is stealing, Off to the vale with a wave of his brush! Heedless of aught that the future's concealing, Back to the present we come with a rush. One ringing shout to the horsemen who follow, Waking the woods till they echo and thrill; Now the horn answers: Hark holloa! hark holloa! Huntsman and hound upon Ivinghoe hill.
George V. Robins.
LXXXVIII
Cricket: the Catch
WHIZZING, fierce, it came Down the summer air, Burning like a flame On my fingers bare, And it brought to me As swift—a memory.
Happy days long dead Clear I saw once more. Childhood that is fled:— Rossall on the shore, Where the sea sobs wild Like a homesick child.
Oh, the blue bird's fled! Never man can follow. Yet at times instead Comes this scarlet swallow, Bearing on its wings (Where it skims and dips, Gleaming through the slips) Sweet Time-strangled things.
F. W. Harvey.
LXXXIX
Rugby Football
(Written on receiving the Football Match List from Ilkley Grammar School)
YOU came by last night's mail To my strange little mud-built house, At a time when the blues were on my trail And I'd little to do but grouse. For the world seemed a-swim with ooze, With everything going wrong, And though I knew that we couldn't lose, Yet the end of it all seemed long. The sandbag bed felt hard, And exceedingly cold the rain, But you sang to me, little green card, And gave me courage again; For at sight of the old green back And the dear familiar crest, I was off and away on memory's track, Where Rumbold's Moor stands bleak and black And the plaintive curlews nest. ​Then, thin and clear, I seemed to hear— Now low and sweet, now high and strong— A note of cheer to banish fear; The little card sang thus his song.
The Song
There's a broad green field in a broad green vale, There's a bounding ball and a straining pack; There's a clean cold wind blowing half a gale, There's a strong defence and a swift attack. There's a roar from the "touch" like an angry sea, As the struggle wavers from goal to goal; But the fight is clean as a fight should be, And they're friends when the ball has ceased to roll. Clean and keen is the grand old rule, And heart and courage must never fail. They are making men where the grey stone school Looks out on the broad green vale. Can you hear the call? Can you hear the call? Now, School! Now, School! Play up! There's many a knock and many a fall For those who follow a Rugger ball; But hark! can you hear it? Over all— Now, School! Now, School! Play up!
She makes her men and she sends them forth, O proud old mother of many sons! The Ilkley breed has proved its worth Wherever the bond of Empire runs; ​But near or far the summons clear Has sought them out from town and heath, They've met the foeman with a cheer, And face to face have smiled on death. They are fighting still to the grand old rule, That heart and courage must never fail— If they fall, there are more where the grey stone school Looks out on the broad green vale. Can you hear the call? Can you hear the call That drowns the roar of Krupp? There are many who fight and many who fall Where the big guns play at the Kaiser's ball, But hark!—can you hear it? Over all— Now, School! Now, School! Play up!
So when old age has won the fight That godlike youth can never win, The mind turns from the coming night, To boyish visions flooding in; And by the hearth the old man dreams Of school and all it meant to him, Till in the firelight's kindly beams The wise old eyes grow very dim. But he's lived his life to the grand old rule That heart and courage must never fail; So he lifts his glass to the grey stone school That looks on the broad green vale. Can you hear the call? Can you hear the call? Here's a toast, now! Fill the cup! ​Though the shadow of fate is on the wall, Here's a final toast ere the darkness fall— "The days of our boyhood—best of all!" Now, School! Now, School! Play up!
Eric Wilkinson.