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It ceases, and all is over,
The box is empty and cold,
THE UNIVERSITY BOAT RACE.
HICH of all moments of life brims over
with glory supremest ? Sweet, Senior Wrangler and Smith's
Prizeman, to pass Double First ! Sweet, in your maiden speech to astonish the
Treasury benches, While even Palmerston grunts, “ 'Gad! here's a
chap that can speak.” Sweet, amid lime-trees' blossom, astir with the
whispers of springtide, Maiden speech to hear, eloquent murmur and
sigh. Ah! but the joy of the Thames when, Cam with
Isis contending, Up the Imperial stream Aash the impetuous
Eights! Sweeping and strong is the stroke as they race
from Putney to Mortlake, Shying the Crab Tree bight ; shooting through
Hammersmith Bridge; Onward elastic they strain to the deep low moan
of the rowlock; Louder the cheer from the bank, swifter the flash Ay, and the winners that day, whether light blue
of the oar!
win it or dark blue, Seldom hereafter, in life glory supremer shall know !
GEORGE JOHN CAYLEY.
A Boat-RACE SKETCH.
N sorrow and joy she has seen the be
ginning Her lightness of spirit half dashed by
the “ blues”. With cheers in her heart for the crew who are
winning, Whilst tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.
If you'll narrowly watch 'midst the noise and con
tention, You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust, A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentian 'Neath her little white collar half carelessly
The tint of a night in the still summer weather
Her tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold, While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened together By dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and
Ah! climax of sweet girlish neutral devices ! What smiles for the winners, for losers what
She has twined her fair hair with the colours of
Isis, Whilst those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes.
J. ASHBY STERRY.
MY SHILLING PHOTOGRAPH,
AN ASCOT LYRIC.
ENTS, take yer picters!' With a will
He blazons, in falsetto shrill,
I bade him · Hook it!'
He cursed, and took it.
'Twas dear at that; but, as I gaze,
With pain for pendant ;
Five squires attendant.
What memories it brings to me
And bright abandon !
Moët and Chandon.
And is this smudge the smile of one
That glowed upon it;
And such a bonnet,
That even lordly lorgnettes scanned
You gave the gipsy,
Or only tipsy?
That's long ago! Is your white brow
I'm in December.
How I remember
The homeward drive that came too soon,
With lazy laughter,
The ices after!
A monument, but not, alas !
And Fancy flashes.
H. B. FREEMAN
OUR labours, my talented brother,
Are happily over at last;
The Bill is rejected, or past;
As fast as your posters can crawl, To help us to draw up our curtain,
As usual, at Fustian Hall. Arrangements are nearly completed;
But still we've a lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated
We'd keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;
Lord John is a trifle too tall;
To faint in, at Fustian Hall.
To listen and look at the rout:
And raving, and running about ; Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle ;
There Andrew and Anthony bawl;