(_Ballad after C.S.C._)
The reporter aired his aquatic lore
(_Popply water in Corney Reach_,)
A thing he had yearly essayed before;
And a rowing jargon obscured his speech.
The coach he coached with a megaphone
(_Crabtree, Craven and Chiswick Eyot_)
Till the crew were prone to emit a groan,
And the Cox said nothing but "Bow, you're late."
The Stroke he quickened to thirty-four
(_In the first half-minute struck seventeen_)
Some clocks returned it a trifle more,
Which wasn't so good as it might have been.
The towpath critic he shook his head
(_Thornycroft's, where they began to row_):
"Hung over the stretcher" was what he said,
And "missed the beginning," and "hands too slow."
The towpath critic, whoe'er he be
(_A tug and some barges blocked the way_),
For thirty odd years, it seems to me,
Has never found anything else to say.
The towpath critic's remarks are trite
(_Off Ayling's Yard in a stiffish breeze_),
Yet I study religiously morn and night
Whole columns consisting of words like these.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MANNERS AND MODES.