The fellow who funking or failure ne'er knew.
He hurry, or falter, catch crabs, miss, or muff?
No, no; lesser men might—say, GL-DST-NE or SM-TH—
But he was not made of such common-place stuff,
His nerve was all steel, and his muscle all pith.
And now he's adrift amidst snags, stumps, and rooks,
And the Coxswain has just lost his rudder—poor Cox.!
And danger's ahead, and the full of the weir
Sounds close, as that Stroke tumbles "head over tip."
No wonder poor Bow, his oar bladeless, looks queer.