Vive L'Angleterre! - England Beat France

Once more unto the ruck, dear friends, once more;

Or close the maul up with our English ball carriers.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of Chabal blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of Jason Robinson.

Stiffen the hamstrings, summon up the blood,

Disguise fair-haired nature with hard-favour'd rage;

Then lend the eye of Jonny a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the tight head

Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a gallic Ibanez

O'erhang his conversion and jutty his confounded base,

Swill'd with the wild and wasteful swing.

Now set the teeth and stretch Sackey's nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English pack.

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!

Fathers that, like so many tap-tackling Worsleys,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their ice packs and deep heat for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest

That those like D'Allaglio whom you call'd fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war.

And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so mean and base, except Simon Shaw,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see Lewsey stand like a greyhound in the slips,

Straining upon the start.

The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George Chuter!'