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—­