His shoulders have no wings, but see, he has them on his shirt.

He's broken through the forward line, baffled the cover-point, Thrown down the other man and knocked their game all out of joint.

And now he rushes on the goal--this makes the senses reel-- Goal! goal! hurrah! hurrah! well done, men of the winged wheel!

At last--how soon!--the game is done; I've scarcely drawn a breath.

This getting out is difficult; I'm almost crushed to death.

The cars are packed; how we'll get home I'm sure I do not know.

Here's room for you; get up, my dears; I'll walk; away you go.

My sermon's gone, but as I walk I cannot help but think That, after all, perhaps I've found a sermon in the rink.

This world is an arena with a slippery sheet of ice, And all have skates and hockey sticks and enter without price.

And seats are round for those who rest--the idle and the old; But those who are not in the game are apt to find it cold.

Some play defence, some forward, with terrific speed and stress.

The puck keeps flying 'twixt the goals of failure and success, Now up, now down, across and back, here, there, and everywhere.

The grit of skates, the crack of sticks, the shouting, fill the air.

Some slip and fall a thousand times and spring up in a trice; Some go to pieces on their feet and have to leave the ice; Some play offside, kick, tackle, trip, try every kind of foul; Some players are forever cheered, some only get a howl.

We seldom hear the whistle of the watchful Referee, Who mostly lets the game go on as if He didn't see.

No gong rings out half-time to let the players get their breath-- To most full time comes only with the solemn stroke of death.

The winners are not always those who make the biggest score: The vanquished oft are victors when the stubborn game is o'er; For many things are added to make up the grand amount, And everything is taken at the last into account-- The sort of sticks we played with, and the way our feet were shod, For the trophy is Salvation and the Referee is G.o.d.

G.o.d prosper our Canadian sports and keep them clean and pure, Whole-hearted, manly, generous, and let them long endure!

Long live each honest winter sport, each good Canadian game, To train the youth in l.u.s.ty health and iron strength of frame, To make them n.o.ble, vigorous, straightforward, ardent, bold, Nearer a perfect standard than the grandest knights of old.

Keep in the path of rect.i.tude the young throughout the land, And guide them ever on their way by thine unerring hand, Along the slippery path of life in safety toward the goal, And keep their bodies holy as the temples of the soul: For the river of the future from the present's fountain runs, And a nation's hope is founded on the virtue of her sons.

The glory of a man is strength, Thy wisdom hath declared: Let strength increase, and strength of frame with strength of will be paired, And let these twain go hand in hand with strength of heart and mind, And strength of character present all forms of strength combined.

Oh, make out strength the strength of men to perfect stature grown, And use it for thine ends and turn man's glory to thine own.