Where Amazon meets with Atlantic blue,
The young and lovely grow up tan and tall
On custard tarts and feijoada stew,
Becoming mighty footers of the ball.
On that sun-warmed greensward where nations meet,
The sons of high Brazil none may withstand;
The chequered leather dances at their feet,
And from the net is stayed by outstretch'd hand.
All other nations quail when they do hear
The samba sound, and hold their manhoods cheap:
Their forwards fall; defenders die for fear;
The goal's great gate the keeper cannot keep.
O leave the field! In vain is all your skill,
For only gods could ever beat Brazil.