OXFORD.

First TOTTENHAM comes, a well-known name, that cattle driving c.o.x'en.

Who oft to victory has steer'd his gallant team of Oxon.

O'er Putney's course so well can he that team in safety goad, That we ought to call old Father Thames the Oxford-Tottenham Road.

Then comes the Stroke, a mariner of merit and renown; Since dark blue are his colours, he can never be dun-brown.

Ye who would at your leisure his heroic deeds peruse, Go, read _Tom Brown at Oxford_ by the other Tom--TOM HUGHES.

Next SENHOUSE, short for Senate-house, but long enough for seven, Shall to the _eight-oar'd_ ship impart a _sen-at-orial_ leaven.

Then Number Six (no truer word was ever said in joke) In keeping with his name of WOOD, has heart and limbs of oak.

The voice of all aquatic men the praise of "Five" proclaims; No finer sight can eye delight than "HENLEY-upon-Thames."

Then Number Four who is heaver far than a number of Macmillan, Though WILLAN'S his name may well exclaim, "Here I am, but I hain't a willan." [1]

Then FREEMAN rows at Number Three, in a freer and manly style; No finer oar was e'er produced by the Tiber, Thames, or Nile.

Let politicians, if they please, rob freemen of their vote, Provided they leave Oxford men a FREEMAN for their boat.

Among the crowd of oarsmen proud no name will fame shout louder Than his who sits at Number Two, the straight and upright CROWDER.

Then RAIKES rows bow, and we must allow that with all the weight that's aft The bow-oar gives a rakish air to the bows o'

the dark-blue craft.

This is the crew, who've donned dark blue, and no stouter team of Oxon Has ploughed the waves of old Father Thames, or owned a better c.o.x'en.

CAMBRIDGE.

Now, don't refuse, aquatic Muse, the glories to rehea.r.s.e Of the rival crew, who've donned light blue, to row for better for worse.

They've lost their luck, but retain their pluck, and whate'er their fate may be, Light blue may meet one more defeat, but disgrace they ne'er will see.

We've seen them row thro' sleet and snow till they sank--"_merses profundo_"

(HORACE, forgive me!) "_pulchrior Cami evenit arundo_."

First little FORBES our praise absorbs, he comes from a learned College, So Cambridge hopes he will pull his ropes with scientific knowledge.

May he shun the charge of swinging barge more straight than an archer's arrow, May he steer his eight, as he sits sedate in the stern of his vessel narrow!

Then comes the Stroke, with a heart of oak, who has stood to his flag like twenty, While some stood aloof, and were not proof against _dolce far niente_.

So let us pray that GRIFFITHS may to the banks of Cam recall The swing and style, lost for a while, since the days of JONES and HALL.

Then WATNEY comes, and a pluckier seven ne'er rowed in a Cambridge crew; His long straight swing is just the thing which an oarsman loves to view.

Then comes KINGLAKE, of a ma.s.sive make, who in spite of failures past, Like a sailor true, has nailed light-blue as his colours to the mast.

The Consul bold in days of old was thanked by the Patres h.o.a.ry, When, in spite of luck, he displayed his pluck on the field of Cannae gory; So whate'er the fate of the Cambridge eight, let Cambridge men agree, Their voice to raise in their Captain's praise with thrice and three times three.

Then Number Five is all alive, and for hard work always ready, As to and fro his broad back doth go, like a pendulum strong and steady.

Then FORTESCUE doth pull it through without delay or dawdlin'; Right proud I trow as they see him row are the merry men of Magdalen.

Then comes a name well known to fame, the great and gallant BOURKE; Who ne'er was known fatigue to own, or neglect his share of work.

_New zeal and_ life to each new stroke stout SELWYN doth impart, And ever with fresh vigour, like Antaeus, forward start.

Then last, but not the least of all, to row the boat along, They've got a bow whom all allow to be both STILL and strong.

No crew can quail, or ever fail to labour with a will, When so much strength and spirits are supplied them by their STILL.

We've done our task--to you who ask the probable result We more will speak, if you next week our Prophet will consult.

(1866)

[1] Cf. _Pickwick_. "Here I am, but I hain't a willan."--FAT BOY.

A BALLAD.

I.

I cannot rest o' the night, Mother, For my heart is cold and wan: I fear the return o' light, Mother, Since my own true love is gone.

O winsome aye was his face, Mother, And tender his bright blue eye; But his beauty and manly grace, Mother, Beneath the dark earth do lie.

II.

They tell me that I am young, Mother, That joy will return once more; But sorrow my heart has wrung, Mother, And I feel the wound full sore.

The tree at the root frost-bitten Will flourish never again, And the woe that my life hath smitten Hath frozen each inmost vein.

III.

Whene'er the moon's shining clear, Mother, I think o' my lover that's gone; Heaven seem'd to draw very near, Mother, As above us in glory it shone.

Ah! whither hath fled all my gladness?

Ah! would from life I could fly!

That laying me down in my sadness I might kiss thee, my Mother, and die!

AN APRIL SQUALL.

Breathless is the deep blue sky; Breathless doth the blue sea lie; And scarcely can my heart believe, 'Neath such a sky, on such a wave, That Heaven can frown and billows rave, Or Beauty so divine deceive.

Softly sail we with the tide; Silently our bark doth glide; Above our heads no clouds appear: Only in the West afar A dark spot, like a baneful star, Doth herald tempests dark and drear.

And now the wind is heard to sigh; The waters heave unquietly; The Heaven above is darkly scowling; Down with the sail! They come, they come!

Loos'd from the depths of their wintry home, The wild fiends of the storm are howling.

Hold tight, and tug at the straining oar, For the wind is rising more and more: Row like a man through the dashing brine!

Row on!--already the squall is past: No more the sky is overcast; Again the sun doth brightly shine.

Oh! higher far is the well-earn'd bliss Of quiet after a storm like this Than all the joys of selfish ease: 'Tis thus I would row o'er the sea of Life, Thus force my way through the roar and strife, And win repose by toils like these.

BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.--I.

THE TWO MAIDENS.

[The following Verses were written for a country Penny Reading].

Two Bedfordshire maidens in one village dwelt; Side by side in their Church every Sunday they knelt; They were not very pretty and not very plain; And their names were Eliza and Emily Jane.