Where all run their best, and the best men must win.
No dodges we own but strength, courage, and science;
Gold rules not the fate of our Isthmian games;
In brutes—tho’ the noblest—we place no reliance;
Our racers are men, and our turf is the Thames.
The sons of St. Dennis in praise of their tennis,
Of chases and volleys, may brag to their fill;
To the northward of Stirling, of golf, and of curling,
Let the chiels wi’ no trousers crack on as they will.
Cricket, football, and rackets—but hold, I’ll not preach,