2
lfish hope of a season's fame, But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote, "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red-- Red with the wreck of a square that broke, The gatling jammed and the Colonel dead And the Regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed its banks, And England's far, and honor a name-- But the voice of a school boy rallies the ranks, "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year While in her place the school is set Every one of the sons must hear, And none that hears it dares forget.
Thus they all with a joyful mind-- Bear their life like a torch in flame-- And failing, fling to the host behind, "Play up! play up! and play the game!"
GREETING
I value more highly than any other athletic gift I have ever received, the Princeton football championship banner that hangs on my wall. It was given to me by a friend who sent three boys to Princeton. It is a duplicate of the one that hangs in the trophy room of the gymnasium there.
How often have I gazed longingly at the names of my loyal team-mates inscribed upon it. Many times have I run over in my mind the part that each one played on the memorable occasion when that banner was won. Memories cluster about that token that are dear and sacred to me.
I see before me not only the faces of my team, but the faces of men of other years and other universities who have contributed so much to the great game of football. I recall the preparatory school days and the part that football played in our school and college careers. Again I see the athletic fields and the dressing rooms. I hear the earnest pleading of the coaches.
I see the teams run out upon the field and hear the cheering throng. The coin is tossed in the air. The shrill blast of the referee's whistle signals the game to start. The ball is kicked off, and the contest is on.
The thousands of spectators watch breathlessly. For the time the whole w