Lines By A Cambridge Ancient Mariner - Addressed To His University.

Wish ye, sons of Alma Mater,             Long lost laurels to replace?         Listen to a stout old Pater,             Once renowned in many a race.         Now, alas!    I'm fat and forty,             And my form grows round to view;         And my nose is rather "porty;"             But my heart is still light-blue.         'Tis as bad as an emetic,             E'en my 'baccy I refuse,         When I hear that sports athletic             Interfere with Cambridge crews.         Once a Grecian runner famous             Scorned to fight his country's foes;         And to Greece, as some to Camus,             Caused innumerable woes.         When I hear the voice parental             Cry, "my youngster shall not row!"         Then my wrath is transcendental,             Then my words with vigour flow.         Sires, with hearts of alabaster,             Your stern "vetos" yet you'll rue,         When ye see a sixth disaster,             Overwhelm your loved light-blue.         But whatever to Cambridge happen,             Sons of Cam behave like men!         Rally round your royal Cap'en,             King of Lake, and King of Fen!         Fortune helps the brave who court her,             Only to yourselves be true;         And perhaps, on Putney's water,             Victory will crown light-blue.         When your Cox'en cries "all ready,"             Be alert, dismiss all napping,         Get well forward, all sit steady,             Grasp the oar, avoid all "capping:"         Shoulders square, back straight, eyes ever             Fixed upon the back before;         Then all eight, with one endeavour,             Dip at once the bladed oar.         Catch your stroke at the beginning,             Then let legs with vigour work:         Little hope has he of winning,             Who his "stretcher" loves to shirk.         Let your rigid arms extended             Be as straight as pokers two;         And until the stroke is ended,             Pull it, without jerking, through!         Thus all disputations spurning,             Ye, ere many a year has past,         While old Fortune's wheel is turning,             Victory shall taste at last.         Only wait and work together;             Trust in discipline and pluck -         Soon bad luck will run his tether,             And good rowing bring good luck.         (1866).