He always retained his love for rowing, and came up punctually every year to take his place on the umpire’s boat at the University race, to which he had a prescriptive claim as an old captain of the O.U.B.C. And this chapter may fitly close with a boating song, the best of its kind that I know of, which he wrote at my request. It appeared in Mr. Severn’s “Almanac of English Sports,” published at Christmas 1868. I had rashly promised the editor to give him some verses for March, on the University race, and put it off till it was time to go to press. When my time was limited by days, and I had to sit down to my task in the midst of other work, I found that the knack of rhyming had left me, and turned naturally to the brother who had helped me in many a copy of verses thirty years back. I sent him down some dozen hobbling lines, and within a post or two I received from him the following, on the March Boat Race:— The wood sways and rocks in the fierce Equinox, The old heathen war-god bears rule in the sky, Aslant down the street drives the pitiless sleet, At the height of the house-tops the cloud-rack spins by. Old Boreas may bluster, but gaily we’ll muster, And crowd every nook on bridge, steamboat, and shore, With cheering to greet Cam and Isis, who meet For the Derby of boating, our fête of the oar. “Off jackets!”—each oarsman springs light to his seat, And we veterans, while ever more fierce beats the rain, Scan well the light form of each hardy athlete, And live the bright days of our youth once again. A fig for the weather! they’re off! swing together! Tho’ lumpy the water and furious the wind, Against a “dead noser”[11] our champions can row, Sir, And leave the poor “Citizens” panting behind. “Swing together!” The Crab-tree, Barnes, Chiswick are past; Now Mortlake—and hark to the signaling gun! While the victors, hard all, long and strong to the last, Rush past Barker’s rails, and our Derby is won. Our Derby, unsullied by fraud and chicane, By thieves-Latin jargon, and leg’s howling din— Our Derby, where “nobbling” and “roping” are vain, Where all run their best, and the best men must win. No dodges we own but strength, courage, and science; Gold rules not the fate of our Isthmian games; In brutes—tho’ the noblest—we place no reliance; Our racers are men, and our turf is the Thames. The sons of St. Dennis in praise of their tennis, Of chases and volleys, may brag to their fill; To the northward of Stirling, of golf, and of curling, Let the chiels wi’ no trousers crack on as they will. Cricket, football, and rackets—but hold, I’ll not preach, Every man to his fancy:—I’m too old to mend— So give _me_ a good stretch down the Abingdon reach, Six miles every inch, and “hard all” to the end.