I sing boating: the attempts of the beginner, the failures in feathering, the deep and jerky stroke, the play of the blades like the sails of the windmill, the frequent crab;
I sing the unsympathetic criticisms of the horny-handed denizens of the towing path, their laughter, profanity, and readiness in repartee;
I sing the toils of training; the troubles of regular exercise, the tired arms, legs, shoulders, neck and breastbone, the bothersome blister, the discomforts in diet, the unsatisfied craving for tobacco;
I sing the pleasures of boating, the joys of the practised oarsman.
I sing the excitement of the race.
The gun, the start, the flying banks, the encouraging shouts from the shore, the confused roar of the tow-path.
The swirl, the rush of the river, the frail ship shooting forward under the efforts of her oarsmen.
The crowd on the bank, the rush, the riot, the rattle, and the rumpus;
The bump, and the glory of the bumpers;
The bump, and the shame of the bumped.