exclaim,
      “Here I am, but I hain’t a willan.” [1]
  Then FREEMAN rows at Number Three, in a freer and manly style;
  No finer oar was e’er produced by the Tiber, Thames, or Nile. 
  Let politicians, if they please, rob freemen of their vote,
  Provided they leave Oxford men a FREEMAN for their boat. 
  Among the crowd of oarsmen proud no name
      will fame shout louder
  Than his who sits at Number Two, the straight
      and upright CROWDER. 
  Then RAIKES rows bow, and we must allow that
      with all the weight that’s aft
  The bow-oar gives a rakish air to the bows o’
      the dark-blue craft. 
  This is the crew, who’ve donned dark blue, and
      no stouter team of Oxon
  Has ploughed the waves of old Father Thames,
      or owned a better Cox’en.

      CAMBRIDGE.

  Now, don’t refuse, aquatic Muse, the glories to rehearse
  Of the rival crew, who’ve donned light blue, to
      row for better for worse. 
  They’ve lost their luck, but retain their pluck,
      and whate’er their fate may be,
  Light blue may meet one more defeat, but disgrace
      they ne’er will see. 
  We’ve seen them row thro’ sleet and snow till
      they sank—­“merses profundo”
  (HORACE, forgive me!) “pulchrior Cami evenit arundo.” 
  First little FORBES our praise absorbs, he comes
      from a learned College,
  So Cambridge hopes he will pull his ropes with
      scientific knowledge. 
  May he shun the charge of swinging barge
      more straight than an archer’s arrow,
  May he steer his eight, as he sits sedate in the
      stern of his vessel narrow! 
  Then comes the Stroke, with a heart of oak, who
      has stood to his flag like twenty,
  While some stood aloof, and were not proof
      against dolce far niente. 
  So let us pray that GRIFFITHS may to the banks of Cam recall
  The swing and style, lost for a while, since the
      days of JONES and HALL. 
  Then WATNEY comes, and a pluckier seven ne’er
      rowed in a Cambridge crew;
  His long straight swing is just the thing which
      an oarsman loves to view. 
  Then comes KINGLAKE, of a massive make, who
      in spite of failures past,
  Like a sailor true, has nailed light-blue as his
      colours to the mast. 
  The Consul bold in days of old was thanked by
      the Patres hoary,
  When, in spite of luck, he displayed his pluck on
      the field of Cannae gory;
  So whate’er the fate of the Cambridge eight, let
      Cambridge men agree,
  Their voice to raise in their Captain’s praise
      with thrice and three times three. 
  Then Number Five is all alive, and for hard work always ready,
  As to and fro his broad back doth go, like a
      pendulum strong and steady. 
  Then FORTESCUE doth pull it through without