‘Twas the night before Charles
Up and down the river,
Not a flywheel was spinning
All nerves were a quiver.
The rowers were home
With carbs on their plates,
And the race on their minds,
With thoughts of their fate.
And all through Cambridge
There was quiet chatter
Of Winning,
And Weeks turns,
And all rowing matters.
When rose the sun,
The course came alive,
Ports, starboards and scullers,
In their pre-race jive
Then heard up in stern,
Said the coxswain with haste,
"Merry Charles to all, and to all a quick race!”
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