The Love of the Game
 

There is too much of sighing, and weaving
    Of pitiful tales of despair.
There is too much of wailing and grieving,
    And too much of railing at care.
There is far too much glorification
    Of money and pleasure and fame;
But I sing the joy of my station,
    And I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of tremble-lip telling
    Of hurts that have come with the fight.
There is too much of pitiful dwelling
    On plans that have failed to go right.
There is too much of envious pining
    For luxuries others may claim.
Too much thought of wining and dining,
    But I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of grim magnifying
    The troubles that come with the day,
There is too much indifferent trying
    To travel a care-beset way.
Too much do men think of gold-getting,
    Too much have they underwrit shame,
Which accounts for the frowning and fretting,
    But I sing the joy of my game.

Let's get back to the work we are doing;
    Let us reckon its joys and its pain;
Let us pause while our tasks we're reviewing,
    To sum up the cost of each gain.
Let us give up our whining and wailing
    Because of the bruises that maim,
And battle the chances of failing
    As being a part of the game.

Let us care more for serving than winning,
    Let us look at our woes as they are;
It is time now that we were beginning
    To be less afraid of a scar.
Let us cease in our glorification
    Of money and pleasure and fame,
And find, whatsoe'er be our station,
    Our joy in the love of the game.