Our game is not for milksops with their namby-pamby ways,
It's a game for the ding-dong fighter with the pluck of the good old days.
We've work for the speedy runner, for the rover who battles alone,
We've a place for the lightweight bantam, we've a niche for the sixteen stone.

Chorus
For it's devil take the hindmost when 'College' strikes the ear,
Charge home with a rousing tackle,
Bang through, stretch 'em out, never fear.
Fit via vi Unanimi,
Vociferabimur,
Fit via vi.

When the ball soars up from the centre, race under it while in the air,
If a 'three' gets it into his clutches, let him know, let him feel you are there,
Is it touch? Then out with it quickly, every man at the ball as it flies,
Come away the whole pack with a rattle, confound it what matters their size.

And now for a jolly good scrimmage, get hold of the ball to begin,
Whip it out to the halves and the centres, now a feint and a swerve and you're in.
What asleep! Brace up for the struggle, it has only just begun,
They will come with a rush in a moment, keep it up, keep it up or you're done.

If you're bottled on your goal-line, hang on to the ball if you can,
If you get in a stew or feel fuddled, barge in and bowl over a man.
Now we've reached the last five minutes, once more to our line they have come,
Screw up for a final effort, stick it out to the end and we've won!