But it’s spurting, gaining, spurting that makes you think you’re flying;
And it’s smiting the beginning, and it’s sweeping of it through
Just for honor, not for pelf,
And without a thought of self,
For the glory of your color and the credit of your crew.
And it’s “Easy all, you’ve passed the post,” and lo, you loose your grip,
But not until the falling flag proclaims you’re at the “ship.” (Text.)
—London Punch.
(501)
Competition, Self—See [Anxiety, Cost of].