Tho’ lumpy the water and furious the wind,
Against a “dead noser”[11] our champions can row, Sir,
And leave the poor “Citizens” panting behind.
“Swing together!” The Crab-tree, Barnes, Chiswick are past;
Now Mortlake—and hark to the signaling gun!
While the victors, hard all, long and strong to the last,
Rush past Barker’s rails, and our Derby is won.
Our Derby, unsullied by fraud and chicane,
By thieves-Latin jargon, and leg’s howling din—
Our Derby, where “nobbling” and “roping” are vain,