All alone—­as a Scholar of Tyrwhitt
    When examined in Hebrew he sits—­
  On a log that mysterious spirit
    Smokes in silence, and silently spits. 
  And yet not alone sat the vision;
    There came, as he sat on his log,
  A wag of delight and submission
    From the tail of each demi-drowned dog.

  Black eels from his temples were hanging,
    His teeth were like teeth of a jack;
  His lips were inaudibly “slanging”;
    His eyes were all muddy and black;
  And water-snakes, round his neck twining,
    Were hissing; and water-rats swam
  At his feet; so without much divining
    I recognised Old Father Cam.

  “All hail to thee, Camus the reedy!”
    I cried, in alarm and surprise;
  “Say, why are thy garments so weedy? 
    And why are these tears in thine eyes?”
  Then the River-god answered me sadly,
    “My glory aquatic is gone! 
  My prospects, alas! look but badly;
    Not a race for four years have I won.

  “I have oarsmen as strong—–­even stronger—­
    Than when my first honours I bore;
  Their arms are as long—­perhaps longer;
    Their shoulders as broad as of yore,
  Yet the prospects of light-blue look bluer;
    I am losing my swing, form and time;
  For who can row well in a sewer;
    Or pull through miasma and slime?”

  Thus murmured the River-god moaning;
    But I bade him to dry his old eye—­
  “In vain is this weeping and groaning;
    Let your motto be, ‘Never say die!’
  Though your waves be more foul than Cocytus,
    Though your prospects, no doubt, are most blue;
  Since Oxford is ready to fight us,
    We will try to select a good crew.

  My friend Lady Margaret tells me
    She can lend me a Bow and a Two;
  The Lady, I own, sometimes sells me,
    But this time I am sure she’ll be true. 
  For WATNEY is wiry and plucky,
    And that BEEBEE’S A 1 all allow;
  And our boat cannot fail to be lucky
    With a double 1st Class in the bow.

  “Then Corpus its PIGOTT shall lend us,
    Young, healthy, and active, and strong;
  And Etona her KINGLAKE shall send us,
    To row our good vessel along;
  And Five from the head of the river,
    Like Pallas from Jove’s head appearing,
  Shall add to the weight of the quiver
    Of the feather-weight Argonaut steering.

  “Then BORTHWICK, the mighty and massive,
    Shall row like a Briton at Six;
  And GRIFFITHS, not prone to be passive,
    Shall pull us to glory like bricks. 
  Our ‘Stroke,’ people say, on the feather
    Is a trifle too fond of a pause;
  But while some say, ‘there’s nothing like leather,’
    I maintain there is nothing like LAWES.