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.
 Cf. Pickwick. “Here I am, but I hain’t a willan.”—FAT BOY.
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 gone.
O winsome aye was his face, Mother,
And tender his bright blue eye;
But his beauty and manly grace, Mother,
Beneath the dark earth do lie.
They tell me that I am young, Mother,
That joy will return once more;
But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother,
And I feel the wound full sore.
The tree at the root frost-bitten
Will flourish never again,
And the woe that my life hath smitten
Hath frozen each inmost vein.
Whene’er the moon’s shining
I think o’ my lover that’s gone;
Heaven seem’d to draw very near, Mother,
As above us in glory it shone.
Ah! whither hath fled all my gladness?
Ah! would from life I could fly!
That laying me down in my sadness
I might kiss thee, my Mother, and die!
AN APRIL SQUALL.
Breathless is the deep blue sky;
Breathless doth the blue sea lie;
And scarcely can my heart believe,
’Neath such a sky, on such a wave,
That Heaven can frown and billows rave,
Or Beauty so divine deceive.
Softly sail we with the tide;
Silently our bark doth glide;
Above our heads no clouds appear:
Only in the West afar
A dark spot, like a baneful star,
Doth herald tempests dark and drear.
And now the wind is heard to sigh;
The waters heave unquietly;
The Heaven above is darkly scowling;
Down with the sail! They come, they come!
Loos’d from the depths of their wintry home,
The wild fiends of the storm are howling.
Hold tight, and tug at the straining oar,
For the wind is rising more and more:
Row like a man through the dashing brine!
Row on!—already the squall is past:
No more the sky is overcast;
Again the sun doth brightly shine.