Three 'ARRIES at large on a Bank Holiday
Could hardly indulge in more blundering pranks.
Stroke "catches a crab" in the clumsiest style,
(And they called him a fine finished oarsman, this chap!)
At his "Catherine-wheeler" a Cockney might smile,
As he tumbles so helplessly back in Bow's lap.
And Bow!--well, he's snapped off the blade of his scull,
And poor Cox's steering-gear's all "in a mull."
It's all that Stroke's fault--so the whisper goes round.
He _would_ try new dodges, uncalled-for, unproved,
They were "going great guns," when he suddenly found
That, to make himself Champion (and get himself loved
By the river-side "Bungs" and their large _clientele_),
He must--set a new stroke in the midst of a spin--
A policy plainly predestined to fail,
And one, we must own, scarce deserving to win.
And so he has smashed up a shining success,
And got himself into a deuce of a mess.
So various voices! And this was the oar
They triumphantly won from a great rival crew;
The cool-headed, steady-nerved Stroke, bound to score;
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.
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