"There's a stroke who 'slices awfully,' and learns without remorse
That his crew are all to pieces at the finish of the course;
There's A., who 'chucks his head about,' and B., who 'twists and screws,'
Like an animated gimlet in a pair of shorts and shoes.
"And C. is 'all beginning,' so remark his candid friends;
It must wear him out in time, we think, this stroke that never ends.
And though D. has no beginning, yet his finish is A1;
How can that possess a finish which has never been begun?
"And E. apparently would be an oar beyond compare,
If the air were only water and the water only air.
And F., whose style is lofty, doubtless has his reasons why
He should wish to scrape the judgment seat, when rowing, from the sky.
"Then G. is far too neat for work, and H. is far too rough;
There's J., who lugs, they say, too much, and K. not half enough;
There's L., who's never fairly done, and M., who's done too brown,
And N., who can't stand training, and poor O., who can't sit down.
"And P. is much too limp to last; there's Q. too stiffly starched;
And R., poor fool, whose inside wrist is never 'nicely arched.'
And, oh, sir, if you pity us, pray tell us, if you please,
What is meant by 'keep your button up,' and 'flatten down your knees.'
"If an oar may be described as 'he,' there's no death half so grim
As the death like which we hang on with our outside hands to 'him;'
But in spite of all our efforts, we have never grasped, have you?
How not to use 'those arms' of ours, and yet to pull it through.
"S. 'never pulled his shoestrings.' If a man must pull at all,
Why uselessly pull shoestrings? Such a task would surely pall.
But T.'s offence is worse than that, he'll never get his Blue,
He thinks rowing is a pastime—well, we own we thought so too.
"Then V.'s 'a shocking sugarer,' how bitter to be that!
X. flourishes his oar about as if it were a bat;
And Y. should be provided, we imagine, with a spade,
Since he always 'digs,' instead of 'merely covering his blade.'
"Lastly, Z.'s a 'real old corker,' who will never learn to work,
For he puts his oar in gently and extracts it with a jerk.
Oh! never has there been, we trow, since wickedness began,
Such a mass of imperfections as the perfect rowing man.