We seldom were quick off the mark, And sprinting was never our game; But when it's insistence and hold-for-the-distance, We've never been beat at that same. The first lap was all to the Hun, At the second we still saw his back; But we knew how to wait and to spurt down the straight, Till we left him dead-beat on the track. He's a bluffer for all he is worth, But he's winded and done to the core, So the last lap is here, with the tape very near, And the old colours well to the fore. Not merry! No—the words would grate, With gaps at every table-side, But chastened, thankful, calm, sedate, Be your victorious Christmas-tide. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IDEA: TO THE READER OF THESE SONNETS, INTRODUCTION by MICHAEL DRAYTON HARVEST SONG by LUDWIG HENRICH CHRISTOPH HOLTY EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: 'EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE' by RUDYARD KIPLING A PSALM OF LIFE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW TWO AT A FIRESIDE by EDWIN MARKHAM THE GODS AND THE WINDS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |