Here , faint and shaken from our falls,
Our colours splashed with clay,
In bitterness the heart recalls
The chances thrown away;
And through the murmur of despair
There beats the one refrain:
Ah! That the gods would start us fair
To ride the course again!

We would not loiter at the start,
Nor let the Field so far;
With nimbler brain, with stouter heart,
We'd face both bank and bar.
We'd skirt the ploughlands wet with rain,
We'd choose a sound way in;
If we could ride the course again,
What doubt but we would win!

Too late! Too late!—our altered plans
May never lend us aid;
The trophy is some braver man's
To take. The game is played.
But ah! That start no souls outlive,
That effort made in vain!—
If but the scornful gods would give
That race to ride again!