"And when I come to die," he said, <br />"Ye shall not lay me out in state, <br />Nor leave your laurels at my head, <br />Nor cause your men of speech orate; <br />No monument your gift shall be, <br />No column in the Hall of Fame; <br />But just this line ye grave for me: <br /> `He played the game.'" <br /> <br />So when his glorious task was done, <br />It was not of his fame we thought; <br />It was not of his battles won, <br />But of the pride with which he fought; <br />But of his zest, his ringing laugh, <br />His trenchant scorn of praise or blame: <br />And so we graved his epitaph, <br /> "He played the game." <br /> <br />And so we, too, in humbler ways <br />Went forth to fight the fight anew, <br />And heeding neither blame nor praise, <br />We held the course he set us true. <br />And we, too, find the fighting sweet; <br />And we, too, fight for fighting's sake; <br />And though we go down in defeat, <br />And though our stormy hearts may break, <br />We will not do our Master shame: <br />We'll play the game, please God, <br /> We'll play the game.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lost-master/
