1. HAWKSHAW 3rd Trinity.
2. PIGOTT Corpus.
3. WATSON Pembroke.
4. HAWKINS Lady Margaret.
5. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity.
6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity.
7. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall.
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 shirk,
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 unassuming 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 shore,
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 ship and crew was dashing,
And little were we troubled by the steamers and the splashing.
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 Gods and Goddesses 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).