Rowing second, vainly struggling ’gainst an unrelenting fate. 
  What will be the end, I know not! what will
      be the doom of Camus? 
  Shall I die disowned, dishonoured?  Shall I live,
      and yet be famous? 
  Backs as strong as oxen have we, legs Herculean and bare,
  Legs that in the ring with Titan wrestler might
      to wrestle dare. 
  Arms we have long, straight, and sinewy,
  Shoulders broad, necks thick and strong,
  Necks that to the earth-supporting Atlas might
      full well belong. 
  “But our strength un-scientific strives in vain
      thro’ stagnant water,
  Every day, I blush to own it, Cambridge strokes
      are rowing shorter. 
  With a short spasmodic impulse see the boats a moment leap,
  Starting with a flying motion, soon they stop
      and sink to sleep. 
  Where are Stanley, Jones, and Courage? where
      is ‘Judas’ stout and tall,
  Where the Stroke named ‘’all’ by Bargemen,
      known to Cambridge as ‘Jack Hall’? 
  ’Twas a spectacle to see him in his gig-lamps row along,
  And the good ship speeding onward swift as
      Poet’s gushing song. 
  Where is Paley?  Where is Fairbairn, from
      whose lips the Naiads dank
  Snatched and gave their sweetest kisses when
      our Eight at Chiswick sank? 
  What avails it to remember brilliant days now lost in night? 
  What avails it Putney’s annals, and past glories to recite? 
  “Lost is Granta, lost our glory, lost our former pride of place,
  Gone are all my blushing honours, nought is
      left me but disgrace. 
  For regardless of all science, every oarsman now obeys
  Wild, new fangled laws and notions, never
      dream’d of in old days. 
  But do you, my gentle Freshmen, who have youth in every vein,
  Labour by your manly valour our lost laurels to regain! 
  When you hear the Cox’n’s ‘row on all,’ then
      keep erect your head;
  Then be your arms and bodies with one motion for’ard sped: 
  Sit firm upon your cushions all; and, when the oar is in,
  With one harmonious action let your work at once begin: 
  Press your feet against the stretcher, and your
      legs with vigour ply,
  Till the ship, as swift as lightning, thro’ the
      yielding water fly. 
  “He who ‘misses the beginning’ makes his comrades
      all to suffer,
  Spoils the swing, and is a nuisance; turn him
      out, for he’s a duffer! 
  Having made a good beginning you must carry on the work,
  And until the stroke is finished not an atom must you shirk. 
  I have seen—­no names I mention—­certain oarsmen with a dash
  Plunge their oars into the water, and produce
      a sudden splash! 
  But the middle and the finish are all wasted in the air,
  And no human constitution can such toil incessant bear;
  For although the ship at starting may