THE PRACTICE OF THE CREWS.
(Ballad after C.S.C.)
The reporter aired his aquatic lore
(Popply water in Corney Reach,)
A thing he had yearly essayed before;
And a rowing jargon obscured his speech.
The coach he coached with a megaphone
(Crabtree, Craven and Chiswick Eyot)
Till the crew were prone to emit a groan,
And the Cox said nothing but "Bow, you're late."
The Stroke he quickened to thirty-four
(In the first half-minute struck seventeen)
Some clocks returned it a trifle more,
Which wasn't so good as it might have been.
The towpath critic he shook his head
(Thornycroft's, where they began to row):
"Hung over the stretcher" was what he said,
And "missed the beginning," and "hands too slow."
The towpath critic, whoe'er he be
(A tug and some barges blocked the way),
For thirty odd years, it seems to me,
Has never found anything else to say.
The towpath critic's remarks are trite
(Off Ayling's Yard in a stiffish breeze),
Yet I study religiously morn and night
Whole columns consisting of words like these.
