Opening Chorus.

Air: "Let the Hills Resound with Song."

Be the season what it may,
We are armed against the fray,
Our fights are fought in realms of sport, Our all is sport.
Be the contest what you will,
We aspire to crown the hill
That gives us vict'ry sweetest when 'tis dearest bought.
Sport we wage,
For 'tis our heritage,
For Waterloo was won upon the fields of play;
Be ours the name
To ever play the game,
With nought to gain beyond the pride to win the day.
When summer days are long,
On the playing fields we throng;
When fortunes rise unto the skies, We feel true joy.
But when our fortunes fall,
With backs against the wall,
Let's suffer then our foe's success without annoy.

In youth or mellowed age,
Spring's warmth or winter's rage,
Our blood runs fast with lines there cast, Where sport is king.
Our haunts the open fields,

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For the joy that action yields,
When summer suns with piercing ray their pleasance bring.
When winter's here
With faded leaves and sere,
The leathern sphere is hot pursued with nerve and vein.
But gain or loss,
They've steer'd the truest course,
Who've fought the fight for love of sport with nought to gain.
As when hunting in the field,
When your rod or gun ye wield,
Your pleasure's most, you're joyful most With aim that's true;
So your ev'ry sense should thrill,
Your heart with gladness fill,
Whene'er your sport be honest, clean, untainted, true.