Their friends too are shouting, and waving their hats
For those who will never submit to a bump.
For men must spurt, and never say die,
And when their strength fails, on their pluck must rely,
While the lasher at Iffley is moaning.
The races are past, and the bumps are made,
The crew have been cheered, and the supper is won,
The pipes and the baccy are quickly renewed,
“The Eight” is deserted—the puntings begun.
For men must rest, and races must cease,