comes
from a learned College,
So Cambridge hopes he will pull his ropes with
scientific knowledge.
May he shun the charge of swinging barge
more straight than an archer's arrow,
May he steer his eight, as he sits sedate in the
stern of his vessel narrow!
Then comes the Stroke, with a heart of oak, who
has stood to his flag like twenty,
While some stood aloof, and were not proof
against _dolce far niente_.
So let us pray that GRIFFITHS may to the banks of Cam recall
The swing and style, lost for a while, since the
days of JONES and HALL.
Then WATNEY comes, and a pluckier seven ne'er
rowed in a Cambridge crew;
His long straight swing is just the thing which
an oarsman loves to view.
Then comes KINGLAKE, of a massive make, who
in spite of failures past,
Like a sailor true, has nailed light-blue as his
colours to the mast.
The Consul bold in days of old was thanked by
the Patres hoary,
When, in spite of luck, he displayed his pluck on
the field of Cannae gory;
So whate'er the fate of the Cambridge eight, let
Cambridge men agree,
Their voice to raise in their Captain's praise
with thrice and three times three.
Then Number Five is all alive, and for hard work always ready,
As to and fro his broad back doth go, like a
pendulum strong and steady.
Then FORTESCUE doth pull it through without delay or dawdlin';
Right proud I trow as they see him row are the
merry men of Magdalen.
Then comes a name well known to fame, the
great and gallant BOURKE;
Who ne'er was known fatigue to own, or neglect
his share of work.
_New zeal and_ life to each new stroke stout SELWYN doth impart,
And ever with fresh vigour, like Antaeus, forward start.
Then last, but not the least of all, to row the boat along,
They've got a bow whom all allow to be both STILL and strong.
No crew can quail, or ever fail to labour with a will,
When so much strength and spirits are supplied
them by their STILL.
We've done our task--to you who ask the probable result
We more will speak, if you next week our Prophet will consult.

(1866)

[1] Cf. _Pickwick_. "Here I am, but I hain't a willan."--FAT BOY.

A BALLAD.

I.

I cannot rest o' the night, Mother,
For my heart is cold and wan:
I fear the return o' light, Mother,
Since my own true love is gon