Poems on Golf Part 1

Poems on Golf.

by Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society.

THE GOFF.

By THOMAS MATHISON, originally a Writer in Edinburgh, and afterwards Minister of Brechin. Reprinted from the second edition of the Poem.--1763.

CANTO I.

Goff, and the _Man_, I sing, who, em'lous, plies The jointed club, whose b.a.l.l.s invade the skies, Who from _Edina's_ tow'rs, his peaceful home, In quest of fame o'er _Letha's_ plains did roam.

Long toil'd the hero, on the verdant field, Strain'd his stout arm the weighty club to wield; Such toils it cost, such labours to obtain The bays of conquest, and the bowl to gain.

O thou GOLFINIA, G.o.ddess of these plains!

Great Patroness of GOFF! indulge my strains; Whether beneath the _thorn-tree_ shade you lie, Or from _Mercerian_ tow'rs the game survey, Or round the green the flying ball you chase, Or make your bed in some hot sandy _face_: Leave your much-lov'd abode, inspire his lays Who sings of GOFF, and sings thy fav'rite's praise.

North from _Edina_ eight furlongs and more, Lies that fam'd field, on _Fortha's_ sounding sh.o.r.e.

Here _Caledonian_ Chiefs for health resort, Confirm their sinews by the manly sport.

_Macdonald_ and unmatch'd _Dalrymple_ ply Their pond'rous weapons, and the green defy; _Rattray_ for skill, and _Corse_ for strength renown'd, _Stewart_ and _Lesly_ beat the sandy ground, And _Brown_ and _Alston_, Chiefs well known to fame, And numbers more the Muse forbears to name.

Gigantic _Biggar_ here full oft is seen, Like huge behemoth on an _Indian_ green; His bulk enormous scarce can 'scape the eyes, Amaz'd spectators wonder how he plies.

Yea, here great _Forbes_,[1] patron of the just, The dread of villains and the good man's trust, When spent with toils in serving human kind, His body recreates, and unbends his mind.

Bright _Phoebus_ now had measur'd half the day, And warm'd the earth with genial noon-tide ray; Forth rush'd _Castalio_ and his daring foe, Both arm'd with clubs, and eager for the blow.

Of finest ash Castalio's shaft was made, Pond'rous with lead, and fenc'd with horn the head (The work of _d.i.c.kson_, who in _Letha_ dwells, And in the art of making clubs excels), Which late beneath great _Claro's_ arm did bend, But now is wielded by his greater friend.

Not with more fury _Norris_ cleav'd the main, To pour his thund'ring arms on guilty _Spain_; Nor with more haste brave _Haddock_ bent his course To guard _Minorca_ from _Iberian_ force,-- Than thou, intrepid hero, urg'd thy way O'er roads and sands, impatient for the fray.

With equal warmth _Pygmalion_ fast pursu'd (With courage oft are little wights endued), 'Till to GOLFINIA'S downs the heroes came, The scene of combat and the field of fame.

Upon a verdant bank by _Flora_ grac'd, Two sister Fairies found the G.o.ddess plac'd; Propp'd by her snowy hand her head reclin'd, Her curling locks hung waving in the wind.

She eyes intent the consecrated green, Crowded with waving clubs and vot'ries keen, And hears the prayers of youths to her address'd, And from the hollow face relieves the ball distress'd.

On either side the sprightly Dryads sat, And entertained the G.o.ddess with their chat.

First VERDURILLA, thus: O rural Queen!

What chiefs are those that drive along the green?

With brandish'd clubs the mighty heroes threat, Their eager looks foretell a keen debate.

To whom GOLFINIA: Nymph, your eyes behold _Pygmalion_ stout, _Castalio_ brave and bold.

From silver _Ierna's_ banks _Castalio_ came, But first on _Andrean_ plains he courted fame.

His sire, a Druid, taught (one day of seven) The paths of virtue, the sure road to heaven.

In _Pictish_ capital the good man pa.s.sed His virtuous life, and there he breath'd his last.

The son now dwells in fair _Edina's_ town, And on our sandy plains pursues renown.

See low _Pygmalion_, skilled in GOFFING art, Small is his size, but dauntless is his heart: Fast by a desk in _Edin's_ domes he sits, With _saids_ and _sicklikes_ length'ning out the writs.

For no mean prize the rival chiefs contend, But full rewards the victor's toils attend.

The vanquish'd hero for the victor fills A mighty bowl containing thirty gills; With n.o.blest liquor is the bowl replete; Here sweets and acids, strength and weakness meet.

From _Indian_ isles the strength and sweetness flow, And _Tagus'_ banks their golden fruits bestow; Cold _Caledonia's_ lucid streams controul The fiery spirits, and fulfil the bowl; For _Albion's_ peace and _Albion's_ friends they pray, And drown in _Punch_ the labours of the day.

The G.o.ddess spoke, and thus GAMBOLIA pray'd: Permit to join in brave _Pygmalion's_ aid, O'er each deep road the hero to sustain, And guide his ball to the desired plain.

To this the G.o.ddess of the manly sport: Go, and be thou that daring chief's support.

Let VERDURILLA be _Castalio's_ stay; I from this flow'ry seat will view the fray.

She said: the nymphs trip nimbly o'er the green, And to the combatants approach unseen.

END OF CANTO I.

[Footnote 1: Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court of Session in Scotland.]

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

CANTO II.

Ye rural powers that on these plains preside, Ye nymphs that dance on Fortha's flow'ry side, a.s.sist the Muse that in your fields delights, And guide her course in these uncommon flights.

But chief, thee, O GOLFINIA! I implore, High as thy b.a.l.l.s instruct my Muse to soar: So may thy green for ever crowded be, And b.a.l.l.s on b.a.l.l.s invade the azure sky.

Now at that hole the chiefs begin the game, Which from the neighb'ring _thorn-tree_ takes its name; Ardent they grasp the ball-compelling clubs, And stretch their arms t' attack the little globes; Not as our warriors brandish'd dreadful arms, When fierce _Bellona_ sounded war's alarms; When conqu'ring _Cromwell_ stain'd fair _Eska's_ flood, And soak'd her banks with _Caledonian_ blood; Or when our bold ancestors madly fought, And clans engaged for trifles or for nought.

That _Fury_ now from our bless'd fields is driv'n, To scourge unhappy nations doom'd by heav'n.

Let _Kouli Kan_ destroy the fertile East, Victorious _Vernon_ thunder in the West; Let horrid war involve perfidious _Spain_, And GEORGE a.s.sert his empire o'er the main: But on our plains _Britannia's_ sons engage, And void of ire the sportive war they wage.

Lo, tatter'd _Irus_, who their armour bears, Upon the green two little pyr'mids rears; On these they place two b.a.l.l.s with careful eye, That with _Clarinda's_ b.r.e.a.s.t.s for colour vie,-- The work of _Bobson_, who, with matchless art, Shapes the firm hide, connecting ev'ry part,-- Then in a socket sets the well-st.i.tched void, And thro' the eyelet drives the downy tide; Crowds urging crowds the forceful brogue impels, The feathers harden and the leather swells; He crams and sweats, yet crams and urges more, Till scarce the turgid globe contains its store; The dreadful falcon's pride here blended lies With pigeons' glossy down of various dyes; The lark's small pinions join the common stock, And yellow glory of the martial c.o.c.k.

Soon as _Hyperion_ gilds old _Andrea's_ spires, From bed the artist to his cell retires, With bended back, there plies his steely awls, And shapes, and stuffs, and finishes the b.a.l.l.s.

But when the glorious G.o.d of day has driv'n His flaming chariot down the steep of heav'n, He ends his labour, and with rural strains Enchants the lovely maids and weary swains: As thro' the streets the blythsome piper plays, In antic dance they answer to his lays; At ev'ry pause the ravish'd crowd acclaim, And rends the skies with tuneful _Bobson's_ name.

Not more rewarded was old _Amphion's_ song, That reared a town, and this drags one along.

Such is fam'd _Bobson_, who in _Andrea_ thrives, And such the b.a.l.l.s each vig'rous hero drives.

First, bold _Castalio_, ere he struck the blow, Lean'd on his club, and thus address'd his foe: Dares weak _Pygmalion_ this stout arm defy, Which brave _Matthias_ doth with terror try?

Strong as he is, _Moravio_ owns my might, Distrusts his vigour, and declines the fight.

Renown'd _Clephanio_ I constrain'd to yield, And drove the haughty vet'ran from the field.

Weak is thine arm, rash youth! thy courage vain; Vanquish'd, with shame you'll curse the fatal plain.

The half-struck b.a.l.l.s your weak endeavours mock, Slowly proceed, and soon forget the stroke.

Not so the orb eludes my thund'ring force, Thro' fields of air it holds its rapid course; Swift as the b.a.l.l.s from martial engines driv'n, Streams like a comet thro' the arch of heav'n.

Vaunter, go on! (_Pygmalion_ thus replies); Thine empty boasts with justice I despise!

Hadst thou the strength Goliah's spear to wield, Like its great master thunder on the field, And with that strength _Culloden's_ matchless art, Not one unmanly thought should daunt my heart.

He said: and sign'd to _Irus_, who before With frequent warnings fill'd the sounding sh.o.r.e.

Then great _Castalio_ his whole strength collects, And on the orb a n.o.ble blow directs; Swift as a thought the ball obedient flies, Sings high in air, and seems to cleave the skies; Then on the level plain its fury spends; And _Irus_ to the chief the welcome tidings sends.

Next in his turn _Pygmalion_ strikes the globe; On the upper half descends the erring club; Along the green the ball confounded scours; No lofty flight the ill-sped stroke impow'rs.

Thus, when the trembling hare descries the hounds, She from her whinny mansion swiftly bounds; O'er hills and fields she scours, outstrips the wind; The hounds and huntsmen follow far behind.

_Gambolia_ now afforded timely aid, She o'er the sand the fainting ball convey'd; Renew'd its force, and urg'd it on its way, Till on the summit of the hill it lay.

Now all on fire the chiefs their orbs pursue, With the next stroke the orbs their flight renew; Thrice round the green they urge the whizzing ball, And thrice three holes to great _Castalio_ fall: The other six _Pygmalion_ bore away, And saved a while the honours of the day.

Had some brave champion of the sandy field The chiefs attended, and the game beheld, With ev'ry stroke his wonder had increas'd, And em'lous fires had kindled in his breast.

END OF CANTO II.

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

CANTO III.

Harmonious Nine, that from _Parna.s.sus_ view The subject world, and all that's done below; Who from oblivion s.n.a.t.c.h the patriot's name, And to the stars extol the hero's fame; Bring each your lyre, and to my song repair, Nor think _Golfinia's_ train below the Muses' care.

Declining _Sol_ with milder beams invades The _Scotian_ fields, and lengthens out the shades; Hastes to survey the conquered golden plains, Where captive _Indians_ mourn in _Spanish_ chains, To gild the waves where hapless _Hosier_ dy'd, Where _Vernon_ late proud _Bourbon's_ force defied, Triumphant rode along the wat'ry plain, _Britannia's_ glory and the scourge of _Spain_.

Still from her seat the _Power_ of GOFF beheld Th' unwearied heroes toiling on the field: The light-foot fairies in their labours share, Each nymph her hero seconds in the war; PYGMALION and _Gambolia_ there appear, And VERDURILLA with _Castalio_ here.

The G.o.ddess saw, and op'd the book of Fate, To search the issue of the grand debate.

Bright silver plates the sacred leaves enfold, Bound with twelve s.h.i.+ning clasps of solid gold.

The wond'rous book contains the fate of all That lift the club, and strike the missive ball; Mysterious rhymes, that thro' the pages flow, The past, the present, and the future show.

GOLFINIA reads the fate-foretelling lines, And soon the sequel of the war divines; Sees conquest doom'd _Castalio's_ toils to crown, _Pygmalion_ doom'd superior might to own.

Then at her side VICTORIA straight appears, Her sister G.o.ddess, arbitress of wars; Upon her head a wreath of bays she wore, And in her hand a laurel sceptre bore; Anxious to know the will of Fate, she stands, And waits obsequious on the Queen's commands.