Classic Poem

My lads, you naught of rowing know;
You're lazy, I'm afraid.
More sluggish than the shallow tide
Where dips your languid blade.

The sun has climbed to heaven's height,
His steeds all panting seem
And now the hour of midday rest
Unyokes the weary team.

You pull along the placid waves;
But with unstraightened back.
The boat is safe; you take your ease;
Your tars not jack but slack.