Before The Boat Race Poem by Frank Samuel Williamson

There's a tumult in the distance, and a warsong in the air,
Where the foemen in their galleys, for another fight prepare,
For they whisper in the country, and they noise it in the town,
That the Wesley colours from the mast will soon be taken down.

Chorus.
Then, it's forward, boys, to battle—hear the bugle's thrilling tone,
With the Royal Purple, borne ahead, march onward, to your own;
With the Lion proudly passing, as the ensign flutters free;
Let the Lion keep the river, as the Lion keeps the sea.

They have raised the Light-blue pennon, and the Flag of the Maroon
See the Dark-Blue Banner flaunting, in the warm October noon,
But who careth for the menace, for it only spurs the bold,
And there are no boys that waver, wearing Purple and the Gold,

O! I hear the voices calling, from the years so far away,
Of the Blue and White clad oarsmen, vanquished in unequal fray,
“Bitter was defeat we tasted, seldom laurel crowned the brow,
Yet we failed that you might conquer, 'tis for you to triumph now.”
See the royal Spring advances, with the colours loved so well,
Golden bloom of wattle bringing, and the wild flower's purple bell,
Cloud-born shadows slowly drifting, o'er the gold-barred, sapphire main,
And the golden shore, that hugs the foam, and renders it again.

Here to me this day are wafted, melodies I loved before,
Wind, and wave, and reed bird singing, and the rhythmic beat of oar.
And a whisper from the college, calling softly to her boys,
“He is worthy, who unselfish, all his strength for me employs.”

Pull, boys, pull, and swing together down the Yarra's calling wave,
While your comrades by the boathouse, shout their welcome to the brave;
Self-forgotten, school revering, honouring the gallant foe,
Let the eight oar take the river—for the fame of Wesley row.