Much of the joy of life would vanish if we had no races to run, no
contests to engage in. The true spirit of competition is exprest in the
following rime:
On Saturday, next Saturday, may I be there to greet
Those sixteen jolly Englishmen a-tugging for the lead.
And eight shall have the victory and eight must bear defeat;
But what’s the odds since all have pluck--and that’s the thing we
need.
Oh, it’s rowing in a stern chase that makes you feel you’re dying.
But it’s spurting, gaining, spurting that makes you think you’re
flying;
And it’s smiting the beginning, and it’s sweeping of it through
Just for honor, not for pelf,
And without a thought of self,
For the glory of your color and the credit of your crew.
And it’s “Easy all, you’ve passed the post,” and lo, you loose
your grip,
But not until the falling flag proclaims you’re at the “ship.” (Text.)
--_London Punch._
(501)
=Competition, Self=--See ANXIETY, COST OF.