There used to be buttercups once on these meads,
There used to be reeds by the bank,
But now these same meadows have not even weeds,
And the water's decidedly rank.
The pastures are crowded with mannerless shows,
And the river with refuse is blocked;
There isn't a corner for quiet repose,
While the nose is most constantly shocked!
The houseboats and tents may with rich colour glow,
And the course be more bright than before,
But there isn't the thought for the men who will row,
As there was in the brave days of yore!
How Willan and Warre and stout "Johnny" Moss
Must recurrence of past time re-wish,
And the sight be to them and to rowing a loss,
But I only can think of the fish
Who are poisoned by garbage and bloated with food,
And oppressed with the bottles o'erthrown!
My sentiments, though by the many pooh-poohed,
By the few will be met with a moan!
The Man in the Boat. "I'm sorry, sir, but it was your own fault. Why didn't you get out into mid-stream?"
