Volume 156 — THE CAM OFFENSIVE.

Once more on Barnwell's fetid ooze, Neglected these long years of slaughter, In stolid tubs the Lenten crews Go forth to flog the same old water. Fresh from the Somme's resilient phase, From Flanders slime and bomb-proof burrows, Much as we did in ancient days They smite the Cam's repellent furrows. Their coaches sit the old, old gees, But with a manner something larger, As warriors who between their knees Have learned to steer the bounding charger. Unchanged their language, rude and firm, Save where a khaki note is sounded, And here and there a towpath term With military tags confounded. "Get forward! Are you ready? Quick— March!" "Get a move on! Keep it breezy!" "Two, mind the step!" "Swing out and kick!" "Halt! Sit at—ease! Ground—oars! Sit easy!" "The dressing's bad all down the line." "Eyes on your front rank's shoulders, Seven! Don't watch the Cam—it's not the Rhine— Or gaze for Gothas up in heaven!" "I want to hear your rowlocks ring Like a good volley, all together." "Hands up (or 'Kamerad') as you swing Straight from the hips. Don't sky your feather, As if I'd given the word, 'High Port'!" "Five, I admit your martial charms, Sir, But now you're on a rowing-thwart, So use your legs and not your arms, Sir!" "Six, you've a rotten seat, my son; Don't trust your stirrups; grip the saddle!" "Squad—properly at ease! Squad—'shun! Get forward! By the centre—paddle!"