If you were only here, George,

I think—in fact, I know,

We'd get a girl to steer, George,

And take a boat and row;

And, striking mighty bubbles

From each propulsive blade,

Forget that life had troubles

At ninety in the shade.

We'd swing along together,

And cheerily defy

This toasting, roasting weather,

This sunshine of July.

Our feather might be dirty,

Our style might not be great;

But style for men of thirty

(And more) is out of date.

You'd note with high elation—

I think I see you now—

The beaded perspiration

That gathered on your brow.

Oh, by that brow impearled, George,

And by that zephyr wet,

I vow in all the world, George,

There's nothing like a "sweat".

To row as if it mattered,

Just think of what it means:

All cares and worries shattered

To silly smithereens.

To row on such a day, George,

And feel the sluggish brain,

Its cobwebs brushed away, George,

Clear for its work again!

But you at Henley linger,

While I am at Bourne-End.

You will not stir a finger

To come and join your friend.

This much at least is clear, George:

We cannot row a pair

So long as I am here, George,

And you remain up there.