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.