Pheugh!  How old memory rushes
    Over me!—­Pulled indeed! 
  Though LEO seldom gushes,
    And these be of LEO’s breed,
  The blood of an Old Blue flushes
    At the Young Blues’ power and speed!

  Coach them, or patronise them? 
    Nay, I’ve no call for that. 
  To cheer them, not to advise them,
    I’m on this path,—­that’s pat! 
  Affection admiringly eyes them:—­
    Once in a boat I sat!

  Pulled my weight at a pinch,
    For odds cared never a “cuss;”
  No stern-chase caused me to flinch,
    But—­always detested fuss. 
  Strain the last ounce, and inch! 
    Races are won, boys, thus!

  Look a most likely lot,
    Lionlets lithe and young. 
  Pace?  They will make it hot. 
    Few can have feathered and swung
  Better.  Tall talk is rot;
    But, hang it!  I must give tongue!

  There’s “Queensland” and “New South Wales,”
    “Australia South” and “West,”
  “Victoria,”—­each one scales
    Good weight, and with girth of chest;
  “New Zealand’s” zeal prevails,
    He’ll swing in time with the rest.

  The hero born of Thetis
    Had pluck enow.  What then? 
  Each hero here, whose meat is
    “Hard steak and harder hen,”
  As stalwart and as fleet is
    As the Greek first of men!

  “Stroke” sets it long and steady;
    That gladdens a true Old Blue. 
  There’s nothing hot and heady
    In sturdy Number Two. 
  There are coxens sharp and ready
    In the Land of the Kangaroo!

  Go it, lads!  Swing together! 
    Push elders from their stools? 
  Pooh! I shall moult no feather;
    Old boys are not always old fools. 
  Out upon jealous blether! 
    You’ve learnt in the best of schools.

  I want to see you win, lads;
    Old LEO loves his cubs. 
  If cynics growl or grin, lads,
    We’ll drive them back to their tubs. 
  Do you think my blood’s so thin, lads,
    I’d diet upon cold snubs?

  The cynics think they’re clever;
    Beshrew their big bow-wow! 
  Boys, swing together ever,
    Steady from stroke to bow;
  One chain shall sever never—­
    The love-links round us now!

* * * * *

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

  Will someone gifted with the nous,
  Explain the “why” of Spinning House? 
  Is it to strike with wholesome fear
  The thoughtless Maiden whose career
  Looks like a sinning one? 
  And thus the Judge her conscience wakes,
  Since he, when passing sentence, takes
  Good care to name a Spinning one? 
  Or is it that in such a habitation,
  Herself a spinster more at home might feel;
  And in a Spinning House find occupation,
  Provided with a decent spinning-wheel;
  But there,—­no matter whence