le
And lilt lyric praise of the Crews,
We too sniff the air of the battle!
We too have a Fit of the Blues.

It's oh! just to "swing behind LEWIS,"
A "youngster as strong as an ox"!
Or be one who true Boss of the Crew is,--
Your "pet Palinurus"--the Cox!
To feel all the blood in one glowing,
And--heedless of love, toil, and "tin"--
Know naught in creation save--Rowing.
Deems nothing worth much save--a WIN!

Five minutes, my boys, of such feeling,
When rivals look beaten and blown,
When the nose of your ship is just stealing
Ahead, when your muscles have grown
To thews, that--_pro tem._--are Titanic,
Are worth a whole year of _our_ lives,
Whose waistbands are--well, Aldermanic,
Who've wrinkles, and worries, and wives!

Well, here's to the two tints of azure,
The Dark Blue as well as the Light!
At least there's one thing we can say sure,--
There'll be no blue funk in their fight.
And here's to the Bard of the _Granta_,
Who sings without "side," "sniff," or "shop."
May he live (if he wish it), to plant a
Big bay on Parnassus's top!

* * * * *

TIM O'HOWLIGAN'S LAMENT.

AIR--"_Arrah! darlints, we can't do without ye!"_

AH! shure boys, the world has gone crazy,
And there's plinty of throuble in shtore,
Ivery mornin' I wake up onaisy
Bekase I can't shleep any more.
'Twas CROMWELL, bad scran to 'im, done it,
Him that murdhered King CHARLES, ochone!
And since the black villin begun it
Ould Erin's done nothing but groan,
And moan,
It would soften the heart of a shtone.

By the poker, I'm boilin' with passion
Whin I think of the laws that they make;
At a fair the bhoys heads ye can't smash in,
Nor get dacently dhrunk at a wake.
There's only twelve pince in a shillin',
And not more than two pints in a quart,
Onless you are cliver at fillin',
And can make it hould more than it ought.
Don't be caught,
Or, be jabers, they'll make you pay for't.

Where's the kings and the princes of Erin
That lived on purtaties and point,
And niver saw year out and year in
The divil a taste of a joint?
Thim toirants now buy all our bacon,
And the linen, and butther, and that,
All that grows in the counthry is taken
From Antrim to Mullinavat.
Poor Pat
Has to sell at a pr