The real ones, the right ones, the straight ones and the true, 
The pukka, peerless sportsmen-their numbers are but few; 
The men who keep on playing though the sun be in eclipse, 
The men who go on losing with a laugh upon their lips. 
The men who care but little for the laurels of renown; 
The men who turn their horses back to help the man that's down; 
The fearless and the friendly ones, the courtly and the kind; 
The men whose lion courage is with gentleness combined. 
My notion of a sportsman ? - I'll try, then, to define. 
For preference well bred, of course, of some clean- living line; 
With pride of place and ancestry whose service was the King's; 
With all a noble knight's contempt for low, left- handed things.
Not the `good sport' who burdens us with cheap and futile chat 
Of the 'pedigree' of this one and the `outside chance' of that, 
But a man who loves good horses just to handle them and ride 
Where the fences call to valour and the English grass lies wide.
All the best and truest sportsmen I have lived with and have known 
Have a changeless faith within them which their simple hearts enthrone, 
Believing in the God that made the green fields passing fair, 
The God that gave good courage - and to every man his share. 
And all the truest sportsmen I have met have had this gift: 
A love of all the classic books that lighten and uplift; 
And all have loved red woodlands, swift birds and coloured flowers; 
And all have played with children and counted not the hours.
And I think when God has gathered all the men that He has made, 
The perfect British sportsman may stand forward unafraid; 
For, brave and kind and courtly, and clean of heart and hand, 
No life than his seems nearer to the life our Maker planned.