While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
These eight coveys went into training one day,
And they trimmed their boat, though at first it felt queer
Their pipes and their baccy were soon put away,
And they stuck to their steaks, and their chops, and their beer;
For men must train and coxswains must steer,
And if they don’t train they’ll get bumped I fear,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
The races came on, and the guns went off,
The crew now are spurting—the boat does jump,