Classic Poem

He was born — but in mercy I'll gallop along,
Nor bother the reader by making my song
A big biographical poem:
Suffice it to mention he grew to a height
Which made him a very respectable sight —
So much by the way of a proem.

In the days of his youth at a quarry he delved;
But the pick and the shovel in season were shelved
For the sake of a tight little ferry.
He strove like a " nigger " — he worked " on the square " ,
And his manner was bland and his charges were fair,
And his rowing was elegant very.

As manhood came on, he discovered a way
Of getting in front of his mates on the bay;
And, being an orthodox liver
With plenty of " bottom " , he quickly became
The equal of Shakespeare — Hurrah for the game
Of making wood fly down the river!

The equal of Shakespeare? Say rather that he
Who left us Othello is reckoned to be,
In this era of rowing and cricket,
A very small thing in the eyes of the gent
For whom this delectable ballad is meant —
The item, whose idol is Trickett.

(Allow me in brackets to playfully say
I'm sure that the fellow who worships today
The fortunate sculler or batter
Would cut Mr Sophocles dead in the street,
And crawl to the first Larry Foley he'd meet —
I'm confident as to the latter.

Such people you see in this country abound:
In the highest society many are found —
Bear witness, my erudite Innes!
And the outcome is this , that while natives excel
At the scull and the bat and at boxing as well,
They mentally rank amongst ninnies.)

But, let me return to the theme of my verse —
He prospered at rowing and so did his purse;
And, afar and in every quarter,
His fame was established, because, you perceive,
He had a big arm under each flannel sleeve
And could shove ahead wood through the water.

In this very peculiar colony, he
Who excels in propelling a piece of a tree
Through a pond of some sort or the other
Is held to be one of the greatest on earth;
And the country he hails as the land of his birth
Is proud to be reckoned his mother.

He hasn't a rival, excepting, no doubt,
The party who's handy at pitching about
At sticks with a ball of dry leather.
And, as to the few who believe in the schools
Of sweetness and light, they are coupled with fools,
And are out in the cold altogether.

My hero was petted, and feasted, and made
To forget his old life with the pick and the spade —
His pockets with coin were distended! —
Alas, for the day when an oysterman " floored "
This idol of ours at propelling a board!
Our name as a Nation is ended!

Bow down in the ashes! A son of the Yank —
A trader in shellfish, has driven a plank
Ahead of the plank of our Trickett!
The country is steeped in the shadow at last —
Our national life is a thing of the past —
We're beaten at sculling and cricket!

And this is the land where a Dalley was born!
Forgive me, my friend, if a flavour of scorn
Is here with a colour of sorrow;
I'm often, you see, like a man that is ill
When I know , in our worship of animal skill,
We'd starve a new Wentworth tomorrow.

Don't think for a moment I'm holding him low
Whose deeds with the scull have delighted us so!
I've gloried to see him a winner.
I quarrel with those who would lift him on high
And crown him, and feast him, nor notice the sigh
Of genius in want of a dinner.

This verse is the last that at present I'll trace —
Give animal pluck its legitimate place
Among things that are worthy of note, man.
In this , the grave time of our national youth,
We need the strong writer and statesman, forsooth,
As well as the excellent boatman.