ChatterBank4 mins ago
England Vs Australia.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Not long now. Are we ready?
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Not long now. Are we ready?
Answers
Enjoy the season Of claret and blue Enjoy the arguments The agreements too Enjoy the shots (when) on target Enjoy the very few goals Marvel at just how fast the football goes. Endure plenty of the misses And lots of the fluky so and so's Enjoy the Stokey opponents Don't forget to boo Enjoy the selections See what the players can do Enjoy the occasional magic goal...
19:56 Sat 03rd Oct 2015
Now entertain conjecture of a modern time,
When creeping murmur, and the poring dark,
Fills the wide vessel of the Twickenham universe.
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of the ITV Night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch;
Fire answers fire, and through their scrummy flames
Each battle sees the other's umber'd face;
Lock threatens Lock, Prop versus Prop in boastful neighs
Piercing the Night's exuberant crowd ear; and from the tiers,
The rolling song, Sweet Chariot. accomplishing the Englisj knights,
With busy hammers closing Ozzie rivets up,
Give dreadful note of our thorough preparation:
The commentary cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy evening name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty Kangas
Do the low-rated English play at scrummage dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night,
Who, like a foul and ugly songstress witch, doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful pre-match fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
The evening's danger; and their gestures hard,
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-vi'orn shirts,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. 0, now, who will behold
The royal captain of this proud English band.
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let Robshaw cry. Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes, and visits all his host;
Bids them good morrow, with a modest smile;
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him,
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of English colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night;
But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
That every Lancaster man, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal, like the sun,
His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear and sharpening our English scalpel.
thanks to the Bard of Stratford
When creeping murmur, and the poring dark,
Fills the wide vessel of the Twickenham universe.
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of the ITV Night,
The hum of either army stilly sounds,
That the fix'd sentinels almost receive
The secret whispers of each other's watch;
Fire answers fire, and through their scrummy flames
Each battle sees the other's umber'd face;
Lock threatens Lock, Prop versus Prop in boastful neighs
Piercing the Night's exuberant crowd ear; and from the tiers,
The rolling song, Sweet Chariot. accomplishing the Englisj knights,
With busy hammers closing Ozzie rivets up,
Give dreadful note of our thorough preparation:
The commentary cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
And the third hour of drowsy evening name.
Proud of their numbers, and secure in soul,
The confident and over-lusty Kangas
Do the low-rated English play at scrummage dice;
And chide the cripple tardy-gaited Night,
Who, like a foul and ugly songstress witch, doth limp
So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
Like sacrifices, by their watchful pre-match fires
Sit patiently, and inly ruminate
The evening's danger; and their gestures hard,
Investing lank-lean cheeks and war-vi'orn shirts,
Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
So many horrid ghosts. 0, now, who will behold
The royal captain of this proud English band.
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
Let Robshaw cry. Praise and glory on his head!
For forth he goes, and visits all his host;
Bids them good morrow, with a modest smile;
And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen.
Upon his royal face there is no note
How dread an army hath enrounded him,
Nor doth he dedicate one jot of English colour
Unto the weary and all-watched night;
But freshly looks, and over-bears attaint
With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
That every Lancaster man, pining and pale before,
Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks.
A largess universal, like the sun,
His liberal eye doth give to every one,
Thawing cold fear and sharpening our English scalpel.
thanks to the Bard of Stratford
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,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds 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!
Are you there 1oz? Here we go.
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,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds 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!
Are you there 1oz? Here we go.
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