FIRMLY catch and swiftly pull The polished, pliant, springing oar, While the muscles swell out full, And the heart throbs more and more; Up the stream with rhythmic swing, Sweet as music in the night, While the straining rowlocks ring, And the blood leaps in delight, With the old, long stroke, With the old, long stroke, That shall bring us in as winners, boys, At last. Soon will come that burning day When the pistol stroke will crack, And our boat will rush away, As we strain each brawny back, Pulling as we ne'er before Pulled, yet still with form and grace, -- Every soul in every oar, Flying down to win the race, With the old, long stroke, With the old, long stroke, That shall bring us in as winners, boys, At last. So, when rowing here is done, And we seek the sea of life, Where our prizes must be won In a swifter stream of strife, We shall labor as of yore, Grim resolve on every face, Bending bravely to the oar, Pulling hard to win the race, With the old, long stroke, With the old, long stroke, That shall bring us in as winners, boys, At last. |