Poems on Golf Part 3

But where is _Oliphant_, that artist grand?

He scarce appears among the Golfing band.

No doubt he's married; but when that befalls Is there an end to putters, clubs, and b.a.l.l.s?

Not so, methinks: _Sir David Baird_ can play With any Golfer of the present day; The _Laird of Lingo_, Major Bob Anstruther-- Both married, and the one as good's the other.

Dalgleish and Haig, two better men to play You scarce will meet upon a summer's day; Alike correct, whatever may befall, Swipe, iron, putter, quarter-stroke, and all.

Old Robert Lindsay plays a decent game, Tho' not a Golfer of _enormous_ fame.

Well can he fish with minnow as with fly, Paint, and play _farthing-brag_ uncommonly; Give jolly dinners, justice courts attend-- A good companion and a steady friend.

But _Cuttlehill_, that wonderful _buffoon_, We meet him now no more, as wont, at noon; No more along the green his jokes are heard, And some who _dared_ not _then_, now take the word.

Farewell! facetious Jem--too surely gone-- A loss to us--_Joe Miller_ to _Boulogne_.

Poor Peter Gla.s.s, a worthy soul and _blue_, Has paid the debt of nature--'tis too true!

Long did his candle flicker with the gout-- One puff, a little stronger, _blew it out_.

And good Patullo! he who drove as none, Since him, have driven--he is also gone!

And Captain Cheape--who does not mourn the day That s.n.a.t.c.h'd so good, so kind a friend away?

One more I name--and only one--but he Was older far, and lower in degree-- Great Davie Robertson, the eldest cad, In whom the good was stronger than the bad; He sleeps in death! and with him sleeps a skill Which Davie, statesmanlike, could wield at will!

Sound be his slumbers! yet if he should wake In worlds where Golf is play'd, himself he'd shake, And look about, and tell each young beginner, "I'll gie half-ane--nae mair, as I'm a sinner."

He leaves a son, and Allan is his name, In Golfing far beyond his father's fame; Tho' in diplomacy, I shrewdly guess, His skill's inferior, and his fame is less.

Now for the _mushrooms_--old, perchance, or new-- But whom my former strain did not review: I'll name an _old one_, Patton, Tom, of Perth, Short, stout, grey-headed, but of sterling worth!

A Golfer perfect--something, it may be, The worse for _wear_, but few so true as he; Good-humour'd when behind as when ahead, And drinks like blazes till he goes to bed.

His friend is Peddie, not an awful swiper, But at the putting he's a very _viper_: Give him a man to drive him through the green, And he'll be bad to beat, it will be seen-- Patton and Peddie--Peddie and Patton, Are just the people one should bet upon.

There Keith with Andrew Wauchope works away, And most respectable the game they play; The navy Captain's steadiness and age Give him, perhaps, the _pull_--but I'll engage, Ere some few months, or rather weeks, are fled, Youth and activity will take the lead.

See Gilmour next--and he can drive a ball As far as any man among them all; In ev'ry hunting-field can lead the van, And is throughout a perfect gentleman.

Next comes a handsome man, with Roman nose And whiskers dark--Wolfe Murray I suppose; He has begun but lately, still he plays A fairish game, and therefore merits praise; Ask him when at his _worst_, and he will say, "'Tis bad--but, Lord! how I play'd _yesterday_!"

Another man with whiskers--stout and strong-- A Golfer too who swipes his b.a.l.l.s along, And well he putts, but I should simply say, His _own opinion's_ better than his play; Dundas can sing a song, or glee, or catch, I think far better than he makes a match.

But who is he whose hairy lips betray Hussar or Lancer? Muse, oh kindly say!

'Tis Captain Feilden. Lord, how hard he hits!

'Tis strange he does not knock the ball to bits!

Sometimes he hits it fair, and makes a stroke Whose distance Saddell's envy might provoke; But take his _common_ play; the worst that ever Play'd Golf might give him _one_, and beat him clever.

Bad tho' he be, the Captain has done more Than ever man who play'd at Golf before: _One_ thund'ring ball he drove--'twas in despair-- Wide of the hole, indeed, but kill'd a _hare_!

Ah! Captain Campbell, old Schehallion, see!

Most have play'd longer, few so well as he;-- A sterling Highlander, and that's no trifle,-- So thinks the _Gael_--a workman with a rifle; Keeps open house--a very proper thing-- And, tho' rheumatic, _fiddles_ like a king!

Sir Thomas of Moncrieffe--I cannot doubt But he will be a Golfer out-and-out; Tho' now, perhaps, he's off, and careless too-- His misses numerous, his. .h.i.ts are few; But he is zealous; and the time will be When few will better play the game than he.

Balbirnie and Makgill will both be good-- Strong, active, lathy fellows; so they should.

But for John Grant, a clever fellow too, I really fear that Golf will never do.

'Tis strange, indeed; for he can paint, and ride, And hunt the hounds, and many a thing beside; Amuse his friends with anecdote and fun; But when he takes his club in hand--he's _done_!

Stay! I retract!--Since writing the above, I've seen him play a better game, by Jove; So much beyond what one could have believ'd, That I confess myself for once deceived; And if he can go on the season through, There's still a _chance_ that he may really _do_.

I've kept a man, in _petto_, for the last-- Not an old Golfer, but by few surpa.s.sed-- Great Captain Fairlie! When he drives a ball-- One of his _best_--for he don't hit them all, It then requires no common stretch of sight To watch its progress, and to see it light.

One moment: I've another to define-- A famous sportsman, and a judge of wine-- Whom faithful Mem'ry offers to my view; He made the game a study, it is true; Still, many play as well but, for _position_ John Buckle fairly beggars compet.i.tion!

And now farewell! I am the worse for wear-- Grey is my jacket, growing grey my hair!

And though my play is pretty much the same, Mine is, at best, a despicable game.

But still I like it--still delight to sing Clubs, players, caddies, b.a.l.l.s, and everything.

But all that's bright must fade, and we who play, Like those before us, soon must pa.s.s away; Yet it requires no prophet's skill to trace The royal game thro' each succeeding race: While on the tide of generations flows, It still shall bloom, a never-fading rose; And still St. Andrews Links, with flags unfurl'd, Shall peerless reign, and challenge all the world!

[Decoration]

[Decoration]

THE NINE HOLES OF THE LINKS OF ST. ANDREWS.

IN A SERIES OF SONNETS.

I. THE FIRST OR BRIDGE HOLE.

Sacred to hope and promise is the spot-- To Philp's and to the Union Parlour near, To every Golfer, every caddie dear-- Where we strike off--oh, ne'er to be forgot, Although in lands most distant we sojourn.

But not without its perils is the place; Mark the opposing caddie's sly grimace, Whispering: "He's on the road!" "He's in the burn!"

So is it often in the grander game Of life, when, eager, hoping for the palm, Breathing of honour, joy, and love and fame, Conscious of nothing like a doubt or qualm, We start, and cry: "Salute us, muse of fire!"

And the first footstep lands us in the mire.

R. C.

II. THE SECOND OR CARTGATE HOLE.

Fearful to Tyro is thy primal stroke, O Cartgate! for behold the bunker opes Right to the _teeing_-place its yawning chops, Hope to engulf ere it is well awoke.

That pa.s.sed, a Scylla in the form of rushes Nods to Charybdis which in ruts appears: He will be safe who in the middle steers; One step aside, the ball destruction brushes.

Golf symbols thus again our painful life, Dangers in front, and pitfalls on each hand: But see, one glorious cleek-stroke from the sand Sends Tyro home, and saves all further strife!

He's in at six--old Sandy views the lad With new respect, remarking: "That's no bad!"

R. C.

III. THE THIRD HOLE.

No rest in Golf--still perils in the path: Here, playing a good ball, perhaps it goes Gently into the _Princ.i.p.alian Nose_, Or else _Tam's Coo_, which equally is death.

Perhaps the wind will catch it in mid-air, And take it to _the Whins_--"Look out, look out!

Tom Morris, be, oh be, a faithful scout!"

But Tom, though _links-eyed_, finds not anywhere.

Such thy mishaps, O Merit: feeble b.a.l.l.s Meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green; 'Tis well, my friends, if you, when this befalls, Can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen.

It only shows the ancient proverb's force, That you may further go and fare the worse.