Sagittulae, Random Verses Part 11

(1866).

GRANTA VICTRIX.

Let penny-a-liners columns pour Of turgid efflorescence, Describe in language that would floor Our Cayleys, Rouths, and Besants, How Oxford oars as levers move, While Cambridge mathematics, Though excellent in theory, prove Unstable in aquatics.

Our muse, a maiden ne'er renowned For pride, or self-reliance, Knows little of the depths profound Of "Telegraphic" science: But now her peace she cannot hold And like a true Camena, With look half-blus.h.i.+ng and half-bold, Descends into the arena.

Sing who was he that steered to win, In spite of nine disasters, And proved that men who ne'er give in Must in the end be masters?

No warrior stern by land or sea, With spurs, c.o.c.ked hat, and sword on, Has weightier work than fell to thee, Our gallant little Gordon.

Who when old Cam was almost dead, His glory almost mouldy, Replaced the laurels on his head?

Sweet Echo answers--"Goldie."

Who was our Seven of mighty brawn As valiant as a lion?

Who could he be but strapping Strachan, Australia's vigorous scion?

Who rowed more fierce than lioness, Bereft of all her whelps?

A thousand light-blue voices bless The magic name of Phelps.

Who was our Five? Herculean Lowe, (Not he of the Exchequer), So strong, that he with ease could row A race in a three-decker.

Cam sighed--"When _shall_ I win a race"?

Fair Granta whispered--"When, Sir, You see at Four, his proper place, My Faerie-queen-like Spencer."

'Tis distance robes the mountain pale In azure tints of bright hue, 'More than a distance' lends to Dale, His well earned double light-blue.

Proud Oxford burnt in days of old Ridley the Cambridge Martyr, But this year in our Ridley bold Proud Oxford caught a Tartar.

And Randolph rowed as well beseemed His school renowned in story, And like old Nelson only dreamed Of Westminster and glory.

These men of weight rowed strong and straight, And led from start to finish; Their slow and steady thirty-eight No spurts could e'er diminish: Till Darbys.h.i.+re, not given to lose, Sees Cambridge rowing past him; And Goldie steps into his shoes; Long may their leather last him!

Glory be theirs who've won full well The love of Alma Mater, The smiles of every light-blue Belle, The shouts of every Pater!

Unlimited was each man's store Of courage, strength, and fettle, From Goldie downwards every oar Was ore of precious metal.

Then fare-ye-well till this time year, Ye heroes stout and strapping, And then beware, forgive my fear, Lest Oxford find you napping; And, oh! when o'er your work ye bend, 'Mid shouts of--"light-blue's winning,"

If ye would triumph in the end, Remember the beginning!

P.S. The Muse true to her s.e.x, Less to be blamed than pitied, A Post-script must of course annex To state a point omitted.

When Granta glorying in success With Camus pours her orisons; One name she gratefully must bless, That name is mighty Morrison's.

THE GREAT BOAT-RACE.

1. HAWKSHAW 3rd Trinity. 5. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity.

2. PIGOTT Corpus. 6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity.

3. WATSON Pembroke. 7. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall.

4. HAWKINS Lady Margaret. 8. SELWYN 3rd Trinity.

Steerer, ARCHER, Corpus.

BEFORE THE RACE.

Come, list to me, who wish to hear the glories of our crew, I'll tell you all the names of those who wear the Cambridge Blue.

First HAWKSHAW comes, a stalwart bow, as tough as oak, nay tougher; Look at him ye who wish to see the Antipodes to "duffer."

Swift as the Hawk in airy flight, strong as the guardsman SHAW, We men of mortal muscles must contemplate him with awe.

Though I dwell by Cam's slow river, and I hope am not a bigot, I think that Isis cannot boast a better man than PIGOTT: Active, and strong, and steady, and never known to s.h.i.+rk, Of Corpus the quintessence, he is always fit for work.

The men of Thames will be amazed when they see our "Three" so strong, And doubt if such a mighty form to mortal mould belong.

"_What son_ is this?" they, one and all, will ask in awe and wonder; The men of Cam will answer make, "A mighty son of thunder."

Next HAWKINS comes at "number 4," the sole surviving pet Of the patroness of rowing, the Lady Margaret; When they think of his broad shoulders, and strong and sinewy arms, Nor parents dear, nor brothers stern, need foster fond alarms.

O! a tear of love maternal in Etona's eye will quiver When she sees her favourate KINGLAKE also monarch of the river.

Oh! that I could honour fitly in this una.s.suming song That wondrous combination of steady, long, and strong.

Then comes a true-blue mariner from the ever-glorious "First,"

In the golden arms of Glory and the lap of Victory nurst; Though blue may be his colours, there are better oarsmen few, And Oxford when it sees him will perhaps look still more blue.

Then comes the son of STEPHEN, as solid as a wall; We need not add, who know his name, that he hails from Trinity Hall.

Oh! in the race, when comes at last the struggle close and dire, May he have the wind and courage of his tutor and his sire; May he think of all the glories of the ribbon black and white, And add another jewel to the diadem so bright!

Then comes a name which Camus and Etona know full well A name that's always sure to win and ne'er will prove a sell.

O what joy will fill a Bishop's heart oft a far far distant sh.o.r.e, When he sees our Stroke; reviving the memories of yore!

Then old Cam will he revisit in fancy's fairy dream, And rouse once more with sounding oar the slow and sluggish stream: But who is this with voice so shrill, so resolute and ready?

Who cries so oft "too late!" "too soon!"

"quicker forward!" "Steady, steady!"

Why 'tis our young toxophilite, our ARCHER bold and true, The lightest and the tightest who has ever steered light-blue.

O when he pulls the yielding string may he shoot both strong and straight, And may the night be swift and sure of his mighty arrows eight!

May he add another victory to increase our Cambridge score; May Father Thames again behold the light blue to the fore!

But ah! the name of Victory falls feebly on my ear-- Forgive me! 'tis not cowardice that bids me shed this tear, I weep to think that three long years have looked on our defeat; For three long years we ne'er have known the taste of triumph sweet; O Father Cam! O Father Thames! O ye nymphs of Chiswick eyot!

O Triton! O Poseidon! Take some, pity on our fate!

What's the use of resolution, or of training, or of science, If anxious friends and relatives to our efforts bid defiance?

If they take our strongest heroes from the middle of the boat, Lest exposure to the weather should result in a sore throat?

We've rowed our boat when wave on wave o'er s.h.i.+p and crew was das.h.i.+ng, And little were we troubled by the steamers and the splas.h.i.+ng.

O little do the light-blues care when tempests round them gather, We'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father!

For though our vessel sank, our hearts were buoyant as a feather, Since we knew that we had done our best in spite of wind and weather.

Then all ye G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses who rule o'er lake and river, O wipe away the trembling tear which in mine eye doth quiver!

O wipe away the dire defeats that now we often suffer; Let not the name of Cambridge blue be breathed with that of "duffer!"

O melt the hearts of governors; for who can hope to thrive, If, when we're just "together," they despoil us of our "Five?"

And lastly, when 'mid shouts and cheers and screams and deafening dins, The two boats start upon their course--

AFTER THE RACE.

Dei mihi, Oxford wins!

(1864).

LINES BY A CAMBRIDGE ANCIENT MARINER