THE PRINCE OF THE T.Y.C. 



What " stoutness "" could face, what " staying " abide 

 The whirlwind sweep of his mighty stride ? 

 The highest must lower his colours of pride 

 To the Prince of the T.Y.C. 



Sprung from the stock of kingly " Blair,'' 

 A Princess soothed his infant care. 



Where, queen of the fenny lea, 

 Her beacon tower old Ely rears 

 " O'er desert plains and rushy meres," 

 Like thee above thy dwindling peers, 



Oh! Prince of the T.Y.C. 



By yeoman bred, by gold unwon, 

 Good yeoman's service hast thou done. 



Without reward or fee ; 

 As " firm as oak and true as steel " ; 

 One magic touch of an armour'd heel. 

 And lo ! thy foemen swerve and reel. 



Oh ! Prince of the T.Y.C. ! 



Thy best-loved pilot dead and gone, 

 Thou needs must make for port alone. 



No more to tempt the sea ; 

 The white sail furl'd, and the anchor cast, 

 With colours nailed to the taper mast. 

 And timbers staunch and firm — to the last 



Prince of the T.Y.C. ! 



Oh ! silken sheen of a snowy vest, 

 Be thine the meed of trophied rest, 



Like pennon floating free 

 Above some 'parted warrior's shrine 

 Emblazoned high with rich design 

 And proud achievements, likest thine. 



Prince of the T.Y.C. 



Oh ! good blaze face we knew so well. 

 No more the clang of the saddling bell 



Shall summon to victory ! 

 But nursing mothers round thee wait. 

 And strangers flock to the harem gate 

 Of the sultan throned in Orient State — 



The Prince of the T.Y.C. 

 132 



