A FYTTE OF THE BLUES.
By an Old "Crock."
(After reading the rattling verses of "Tis," entitled "Good Luck!" in the "Granta.")
Good old Granta! They set the blood glowing,
Your verse-grinder's galloping lines,
There seems rare inspiration in Rowing!
The Muse, who politely declines
To patronise pessimist twitters,
Has smiled on these stanzas, which smack
Of health, honest zeal, foaming "bitters,"
And vigour of brain and of back.
Good luck to the Light Blues! That burden
Befits rattling rhymes from the Cam,
Their "movement" might rouse a Dame Durden,
Or fire a cold victim of cram.
Why it stirs up "old Crocks" to peruse 'em—
Slashing lines on "a slashing octette"—
They feel, though 'tis hard to "enthuse" 'em,
There must be some life in 'em yet.
Old Crocks! Oh, exuberant younkers!
You "guy" "the old gang" as "played out,"
As fogies, and fussers, and funkers,
You've over-much reason, no doubt.
But, great Scott! as your rowing-rhymes rattle
And lilt lyric praise of the Crews,
We too sniff the air of the battle!
We too have a Fit of the Blues.
It's oh! just to "swing behind Lewis,"
A "youngster as strong as an ox"!
Or be one who true Boss of the Crew is,—
Your "pet Palinurus"—the Cox!
To feel all the blood in one glowing,
And—heedless of love, toil, and "tin"—
Know naught in creation save—Rowing.
Deems nothing worth much save—a Win!
Five minutes, my boys, of such feeling,
When rivals look beaten and blown,
When the nose of your ship is just stealing
Ahead, when your muscles have grown
To thews, that—pro tem.—are Titanic,
Are worth a whole year of our lives,
Whose waistbands are—well, Aldermanic,
Who've wrinkles, and worries, and wives!
Well, here's to the two tints of azure,
The Dark Blue as well as the Light!
At least there's one thing we can say sure,—
There'll be no blue funk in their fight.
And here's to the Bard of the Granta,
Who sings without "side," "sniff," or "shop."
May he live (if he wish it), to plant a
Big bay on Parnassus's top!