When eight strong fellows are out to row,
With a slip of a lad to guide them,
I warrant they'll make the light ship go,
Though the coach on the launch may chide them,
With his "Six, get on to it! Five, you're late!
Don't hurry the slides, and use your weight!
You're bucketing, Bow; and, as to Four,
The sight of his shoulders makes me sore!"
But Stroke has steadied his fiery men,
And the lift on the boat gets stronger;
And the Coxswain suddenly shouts for "Ten!
Reach out to it, longer, longer!"
While the wind and the tide raced hand in hand
The swing of the crew and the pace were grand;
But now that the two meet face to face
It's buffet and slam and a tortoise-pace.
For Hammersmith Bridge has rattled past,
And, oh, but the storm is humming.
The turbulent white steeds gallop fast;
They're tossing their crests and coming.
It's a downright rackety, gusty day,
And the backs of the crew are drenched in spray;
But it's "Swing, boys, swing till you're deaf and blind,
And you'll beat and baffle the raging wind."
They have slipped through Barnes; they are round the bend;
And the chests of the eight are tightening.
"Now spend your strength, if you've strength to spend,
And away with your hands like lightning!
Well rowed!"--and the coach is forced to cheer--
"Now stick to it, all, for the post is near!"
And, lo, they stop at the coxswain's call,
With its message of comfort, "Easy all!"
So here's to the sturdy undismayed
Eight men who are bound together
By the faith of the slide and the flashing blade
And the swing and the level feather;
To the deeds they do and the toil they bear;
To the dauntless mind and the will to dare;
And the joyous spirit that makes them one
Till the last fierce stroke of the race is done.
R. C. LEHMANN.
March 16, 1910.
"Gambol"
I stood among the rapturous kennelled pack,
Rejecting love from many a slobbering jaw,
Caressing many a twisting mottled back
And gripping here and there a friendly paw.
But yet a well-known white-and-liver stern
I sought in vain amid the dappled scramble.
A sudden apprehension made me turn
And say, "Where's Gambol?"
Gambol--a nailer on a failing scent,
Leading by fifty yards across the plough!
Gambol, who erst would riot and repent,
Who loved to instigate a kennel row!
Who'd often profit by "a private view"
"Huic-ing to him" incarnadined from cover,
And when a "half-cooked hare" sat squatting, who
Through roots would shove her!
I turned with mute inquiry in my eyes,
Dire rumours of distemper made me dumb,
The kennel huntsman, chary of replies,
Behind his shoulder jerked a horny thumb.
Such silence, though familiar, boded ill;
With doubts and fears increasing every minute,
I paused before a doorway--all was still
As death within it.
Gambol was stretched upon a truss of hay,
But not the ruthless hound that I had known.
That snarling terrorist of many a fray
Now at my feet lay low, but not alone,
Then rose to greet me--slowly shaking free
Four sleek round shapes that piped a puling twitter--
And fawned, half shamed, half proud for me to see
Her brand-new litter.
MISS JESSIE POPE.
March 20, 1912.
"The Little Foxes"
This was a wisdom that SOLOMON said
In a garden of citron and roses red,
A word he wove, where his grey apes played,
In the rhyme he strung for love of a maid;
Thus went his learning, most discerning,
Thus he sang of his old designs,
"Take us the foxes--little foxes,
Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!"
(Though SOLOMON never since he was born
Had heard the twang of a huntsman's horn,
Killing his foxes, so I'll be bound,
Without the help of a horse or hound,
Still down the ages, this his sage's
Word with gallanter meaning shines,
When we take foxes, little foxes,
Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!)
So when the morn hangs misty now
Where the grass shows never a patch of plough,
Hark to the cry on the spruce-crowned hill,
For SOLOMON'S wisdom is working still;
Hark to the singing voices flinging,
White sterns waving among the pines,
All for the foxes--little foxes,
Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines.
The lift of a cap at the cover side,
A thud of hoofs in a squelchy ride,
And the pack is racing a breast-high scent
Like a shadow cloud o'er a windy bent!
Customer cunning--full of running,
Never a moment the game declines;
Thus are the foxes--little foxes,
Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines.
So it's afternoon, and eight miles away
That beat, dead-weary and stiff with clay
A tired mask, set for a distant whin,
Is turned on Death with a brigand grin!
There by the paling, wet brush trailing,
Still he bares them his lips' long lines;
So die the foxes--little foxes,
Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines.
This was the wisdom that SOLOMON made
In a garden of citron and almug shade,
That a man and a horse might find them fun
Wherever the little dog-foxes run,
Since of his meaning we've been gleaning,
Since we've altered his old designs.
All about foxes--little foxes,
Little dog-foxes that spoil the vines!
P. R. CHALMERS.
April 3, 1912.