The morning mist lies low,
The dew perfumes the grass,
And on it run amok the lads,
Winged feet and sturdy hearts
That spring them up at that dawn
To partake and to indulge in ,
boots, grass and Beauty.
They whisper forward as if one,
Weaving their web of magic,
And should indeed thier lines break,
The rearguard stands tall.
The game though, is won in the middle
Where battle is made upon the playing field,
A conflict of strength and mind and
Of boots, grass and Beauty.
They have won and they have lost,
Yet in a well played game , lie
Neither victory or defeat
For those are realms of honour,
Of pride and joy
Of boots, grass and Beauty.