Just like life! Such fidgety strife to be first to the front when the lock-gates sever.
What does it matter, friends, after all? The slow, the skilful, the dull, the clever,
The snake-swift "swell" and the splashing 'ARRY, the puffing launch, and the trim outrigger,
The calm canoest who hugs the timbers, the fussy punter who toils like a nigger,
All will anon be well out in the cutting, the old gates shutting slowly behind them,
And where are those who so shoved to the front? At the tail of the race you may presently find them.
The G.O.M. (with his collars for sails), that jaunty skiff might be handling. Bless us!
Can he take holiday, he whom toil seems to encoil like a shirt of Nessus?
Well, Unionist or Separatist, or chap with a twist like C-NN-NGH-M GR-H-M,
Or howling PAT, or Aristocrat with manners like BRUMMEL and voice like BRAHAM,