The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Golfer's RubaiyatThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Golfer's RubaiyatAuthor: Henry Walcott BoyntonRelease date: December 24, 2007 [eBook #24018]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Anne Storer and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLFER'S RUBAIYAT ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Golfer's RubaiyatAuthor: Henry Walcott BoyntonRelease date: December 24, 2007 [eBook #24018]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by David Edwards, Anne Storer and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
Title: The Golfer's Rubaiyat
Author: Henry Walcott Boynton
Author: Henry Walcott Boynton
Release date: December 24, 2007 [eBook #24018]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Anne Storer and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLFER'S RUBAIYAT ***
title pagecopyrightThe Golfer’s RubáiyátIWAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flightThe stars before him from the Tee of Night,And holed them every one without a Miss,Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.IIWAKE, Loiterer! for already Dawn is seenWith her red marker on the eastern Green,And summons all her Little Ones to changeA joyous Three for every sad Thirteen.IIIAND as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe first Tee murmur’d: “Just this chance to score,You know how little while we have to play,And, once departed, may return no more.”IVNOW the fresh Year, reviving old Desires,The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.VCAMPBELL indeed is past with all his Fame,And old Tom Morris now is but a name;But many a Jamie by the Bunker blows,And many a Willie rules us, just the same.VIA THOUSAND lips are lockt; but still in hoarHigh-balling Andrew’s Shrine, with “Fore, fore, fore!Oh, fore!” the Golfer to the Duffer cries,That reddened cheek of his to redden more.VIICOME, choose your Ball, and in the fire of SpringYour Red Coat, and your wooden Putter fling;The Club of Time has but a little whileTo waggle, and the Club is on the swing.VIIWHETHER at Musselburgh or Shinnecock,In motley Hose or humbler motley Sock,The Cup of Life is ebbing Drop by Drop,Whether the Cup be filled with Scotch or Bock.IXEACH Morn a thousand Matches brings, you say;Yes, but who plays the Match of Yesterday?And this first Summer month of opening GreensShall take this Championship and That away.XWELL, let it take them! What have we to doWith Championships, or, Champion, with you?Let This or Other struggle as he will,For him alone the Strife—for him to rue.XIWITH me along the strip of sandy DownThat just divides the Desert from the sown,Where name of Shop and Study is forgot,—And Peace to Croker on his golden Throne!XIIA BAG of Clubs, a Silver-Town or two,A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag—and ThouBeside me caddying in the Wilderness—Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.XIIISOME for the weekly Handicap; and someSigh for a greater Championship to come:Ah, play the Match, and let the Medal go,Nor heed old Bogey with his wretched Sum.XIVLOOK to the blowing Rows about us—“Lo,“Strolling,” they say, “over the course we go,“And here or there we lightly flick the Ball,“Turn, and the Trick is done—in So-and-so.”XVBUT those who keep their Cards and turn them in,And those who weekly Handicaps may win,Alike to no such aureate Fame are brought,As, buried once, Men want dug up again.XVITHE shining Cup men set their hearts uponIs lost to them—or won them; and anon,Like a good Three set in a bald Three-score,That Glory gleams a moment—and is gone.XVIITHINK, in this worn, forlorn old Field of Play,Whose Green-keepers in turn are Night and Day,How Champion after Champion with his PompAbode his destin’d Hour and went his way.XVIIITHEY say the Female and the Duffer strutOn sacred Greens where Morris used to putt;Himself a natural Hazard now, alas!That nice Hand quiet now, that great Eye shut.XIXI SOMETIMES think that never springs so greenThe Turf as where some Good Fellow has been,And every emerald Stretch the Fair Green showsHis kindly Tread has known, his sure Play seen.XXAND this reviving Herb whose tender greenMuffles the fair white Sphere o’er which we lean,Ah, curse it gently, for here Jamie once—Great Jamie—lay, and fetch’d a bad Thirteen.XXIAH, my Belovéd, play the Round that offersTO-DAY some joy, whate’er To-morrow suffers:To-morrow!—why, to-morrow I may beMyself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Duffers.XXIIAND some we loved, the feeblest with a Club,Ordain’d to sclaff, to foozle, and to flub,Have turned in Cards a Round or two before,And played that final Green without a Rub.XXIIIAND we that now make merry on the GreenThey left, and Summer dresses in new sheen,Ourselves must we beneath the springing TurfAdd our Ell to the Bunker of Has-been.XXIVAH, make the most of what we yet may spendBefore we too into the Dust descend;Dust into dust, and under Dust to lie,Sans Breath, sans Golf, sans Golfer, and—sans End!XXVALIKE for those who for TO-DAY prepare,And those who after some TO-MORROW stare,A Keeper from the Links of Darkness criesFools, your Reward is neither Here nor There.XXVIWHY, all the Toms and Jamies who discuss’dOf the True Art so wisely—they are thrustLike foolish prophets forth; their Words to ScornAre scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.XXVIIMYSELF when young did eagerly frequentJamie and His, and heard great argumentOf Grip and Stance and Swing; but evermoreFound at the Exit but a Dollar spent.XXVIIIWITH them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d—“You hold it This Way, and you swing it So.”XXIXPATIENT I fared to many a sacred Spot,Ev’n at the Shrine of Andrew cast my lot,And many a Knot unravel’d by the Road;But not, alas! of Golf the Master-knot.XXXTHERE was a Green for which I found no Tee,And a blind Bunker which I might not see:Out of the distant Dark a Voice cries “Fore!”And then—and then no more of Thee and Me.XXXIAS then the Sparrow for his morning Crumb,Do thou each Morrow to the First Tee come,And play thy quiet Round, till crusty AgeCondemn thee to a hopeless Dufferdom.XXXIIPERPLEXT no more with Where or How or Why,Thy easy fingers to the Shaft apply,Content to send away a fair straight Ball,Though follow’d earthward by the naked Eye.XXXIIIAND if the Ball you drive, the Shaft you press,End in what all begins and ends in—Yes;Thank Heav’n you playTo-dayasYesterdayYou play’d—To-morrowyou shall not do less.XXXIVGLAD if the Master of the HandicapAt last shall find you come without Mishap,Though without Glory, to turn in the CardHe has expected of your sort of Chap.XXXVWHAT though a Fluke should fling your Class aside,And Best Gross be your momentary pride:Are you a Golfer more than when last weekYou didYourbest, and barely saved your Hide?XXXVI’TIS like a private Bar where for a DayInnumerable Rickies come your way,Happy—but on the morrow happier farHad there been less to drink and more to pay.XXXVIIAND fear not lest the Fair Green after yourIll-luck and mine should yield Bad Lies no more;One or two Others may fare ill as you:Nay, even three, or maybe—maybe four.XXXVIIIWHEN you and I our final Match have play’d,Think not the ever-springing Green shall fade;Which of our Coming and Departure heedsAs Caddies heed the Bag,—their Quarter paid.XXXIXA MOMENT’S Flight—a momentary FlickOf Being from the Providential Stick,And Lo!—the phantom human Sphere has reachtThe Nothing it set out from—Ah, be quick!XLWOULD you that Fillip of Existence spendAbout THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend!A Hair perhaps divides the False and True,And upon what, prithee, does this Golf depend?XLIA HAIR perhaps divides the False and True,Yes, and a single Jamie were the Clue—Could you but find him—to the Championship,And peradventure to the Champion too.XLIIAND yet what matter who a Moment reigns?’Tis not for such a Toy you take your pains;To play the steady, simple, honest Game;That is the Joy and Credit that remains.XLIIIBEHIND the uprisen Turf fair in the Ditch,To risk the Overhang, or play back—whichTo do? Ah, Brother, let the Gallery go:Than tear the Web, better to drop a Stitch!XLIVTWO—Three—aye, better Golf we all have seen—But—bravo! Four—a sweet Approach and Clean;Steady, you still may well go down in Five:There are no Hazards on the Putting-Green.XLVWASTE not your Hour, nor try in vain to fixThe How and Why—some wondrous Brew to mix;Better be jocund with a calm Two-scoreThan sadden for a bitter Thirty-six.XLVISTRANGE, is it not?—that of the myriads whoInto the Out-of-Bounds have late play’d through,Not one returns to tell us of the StrokeTo guarantee the shortest Hole in Two.XLVIITHE Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,But Here or There as strikes the Player goes,And ye who play behold the Ball fly clean,Or roll a Rod; but why? Who knows? Who knows?XLVIIITHE swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,Moves on: nor all your Wit or future LuckShall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.XLIXNO hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize:The batter’d, blacken’d Re-made sweetly flies,Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the truth:Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.LAND that inverted Ball they call the High—By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,Lift not your hands toItfor help, for itAs impotently froths as you or I.LIOF Earth’s first Clay was the last Golfer framed,And that last Golfer’s latest Score was namedWhen the first Morning of Creation sangThe Dirge of every Duffer Golf has claimed.LIIYESTERDAY this Day’s Foozling did prepare;To-morrow’sSlicing will not yield to Prayer:Play! for you know not whence you came, nor why:Play! for you know not why you go, nor where.LIIII TELL you this—When, after youth was past,A kindly Heav’n gave me to Golf at last;No Freedom but I gladly barter’d forThe satisfying Bond that holds me fast.LIVAND this I know: there is a Charm aboutThe quiet State of Golf, tho’ fools may flout,That with its magic has unlock’d the DoorOf Happiness they only howl without.* * * *LVAS under cover of departing DaySlinks the defeated Duffer on his way,Once more within the Maker’s house aloneI stood, surrounded by the Tools of Play.LVICLUBS of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,That stood along the floor and by the wall;And some old batter’d Veterans were; and someHad swung perhaps, but never driv’n at all.LVIISAID one among them—“Surely not for naughtTom Morris fashion’d me with anxious thought,Has not my Form won many a Match and Cup?And yet—and yet—I am no longer bought.”LVIIITHEN said a Second—“Hear the Codger croak!Sure he would make of Golf an ancient Joke;But Me—just think! a modern Willie Park,My fickle Owner cannot sell nor soak!”LIXAFTER a momentary silence spakeA Brassie of a more ungainly make—“They sneer at me for leaning all awry:Well, then, I ask who won the last Sweepstake?”LXWHEREAT some one of the loquacious Lot,I think a putting Niblick, or if not,A driving Putter, or a goose-neck’d Cleek—“Pray, what is Golf then,—and the Golfer what?”LXI“WHY,” said another, “Some there are who sayThat Golf is but a Game that Golfers play,And some that Life is but a mighty Green,And Golf the Art to use it day by day.”LXII“WELL,” murmur’d one, “let whoso make or buy,All in one Pickle we—like as we lie:For let the right Good-Fellow come along,We all may lay the Ball dead by and by.”LXIIISO one and one and one I heard them speak:“Ah, Friends,” said I, “’tis not a Make we seek,A Duffer arm’d with all the Clubs there be—What is he to a Player with a Cleek?”* * * *LXIVLATELY, agape beside the door of Fame,Sudden a Touch upon my shoulder came,And thro’ the Dusk an Angel Shape held outThe greater Guerdon; and it was—the Game!LXVTHE Game that can with Logic absoluteThe Dronings of the Soberheads confute,Silence the scoffing ones, and in a triceLife’s leaden metal into Gold transmute.LXVIINDEED, the brave Game I have loved so wellHas little taught me how to buy or sell;Has pawn’d my Greatness for an Hour of Ease,And barter’d cold Cash for—a Miracle.LXVIIINDEED, indeed, Repentance oft beforeI swore—but it was Winter when I swore,And then and then came Spring, and Club-in-handI hasten’d forth for one Round—one Round more.LXVIIIBUT much as Golf has play’d the Infidel,And robb’d me of my worldly Profit—Well,I often wonder what the Grubbers earnOne half so precious as the Joy they sell.LXIXWHAT! for a senseless Bank-Account to wreakTheir manly Strength on Ledgers, till too weakTo swing a club?—So Caddies calmly treadIn Mire the Ball Heav’n sent them here to seek.LXXWHAT! as a poor dull Drudge to waste the ForceThat might have made a Golfer, till the SourceOf Golf be dried—and Life grow all too briefTo top a Ball around the Ladies’ Course!LXXIYET, ah, that Golf should vanish with the green!What noble matches Winter might have seen;And in Old Age what glorious Hazards foil’d,What Zest of painful Pleasures might have been!LXXIIWOULD but the dim Face of old Winter yieldOne glimpse of green, like Youth to Age reveal’d,Thro’ which once more the failing Limbs might springAs springs the trampled Herbage of the Field.LXXIIIAH! with the Green my fading life provide,Some ancient golfing Crony by my side:Content to play one Round, or, meeker still,To mix a gentle Foursome satisfied.LXXIVTHAT even the wavering Remnant of the SwingMay bear some witness to my virtuous Spring,And leave no True-believer passing-byUnedified by its Admonishing.LXXVWOULD but the god of Golfers ere too lateArrest the sure-advancing step of Fate,What matter if we play the Odd or Like?Or—if we play—hole out in Four or Eight?LXXVIAH, let the Honor go to Fate, and letAll difficulties by that Crack be met;The Duffer still may win a Half or two,Content while Fate is only Dormie yet.LXXVIIOR if ev’n this be taken, you and IMay still fare onward calmly, honestly,Nor care how many Down the Record stand:The Match is over—Let us play the Bye!LXXVIIIYON rising Moon that leads us Home again,How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising wait for usAt this same Turning—and forOnein vain.LXXIXAND when, like her, my Golfer, I have beenAnd am no more above the pleasant Green,And you in your mild Journey pass the HoleI made in One—ah! pay my Forfeit then!TAMÁM
title page
copyright
WAKE! for the sun has driven in equal flightThe stars before him from the Tee of Night,And holed them every one without a Miss,Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.
WAKE, Loiterer! for already Dawn is seenWith her red marker on the eastern Green,And summons all her Little Ones to changeA joyous Three for every sad Thirteen.
AND as the Cock crew, those who stood beforeThe first Tee murmur’d: “Just this chance to score,You know how little while we have to play,And, once departed, may return no more.”
NOW the fresh Year, reviving old Desires,The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.
CAMPBELL indeed is past with all his Fame,And old Tom Morris now is but a name;But many a Jamie by the Bunker blows,And many a Willie rules us, just the same.
A THOUSAND lips are lockt; but still in hoarHigh-balling Andrew’s Shrine, with “Fore, fore, fore!Oh, fore!” the Golfer to the Duffer cries,That reddened cheek of his to redden more.
COME, choose your Ball, and in the fire of SpringYour Red Coat, and your wooden Putter fling;The Club of Time has but a little whileTo waggle, and the Club is on the swing.
WHETHER at Musselburgh or Shinnecock,In motley Hose or humbler motley Sock,The Cup of Life is ebbing Drop by Drop,Whether the Cup be filled with Scotch or Bock.
EACH Morn a thousand Matches brings, you say;Yes, but who plays the Match of Yesterday?And this first Summer month of opening GreensShall take this Championship and That away.
WELL, let it take them! What have we to doWith Championships, or, Champion, with you?Let This or Other struggle as he will,For him alone the Strife—for him to rue.
WITH me along the strip of sandy DownThat just divides the Desert from the sown,Where name of Shop and Study is forgot,—And Peace to Croker on his golden Throne!
A BAG of Clubs, a Silver-Town or two,A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag—and ThouBeside me caddying in the Wilderness—Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.
SOME for the weekly Handicap; and someSigh for a greater Championship to come:Ah, play the Match, and let the Medal go,Nor heed old Bogey with his wretched Sum.
LOOK to the blowing Rows about us—“Lo,“Strolling,” they say, “over the course we go,“And here or there we lightly flick the Ball,“Turn, and the Trick is done—in So-and-so.”
BUT those who keep their Cards and turn them in,And those who weekly Handicaps may win,Alike to no such aureate Fame are brought,As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
THE shining Cup men set their hearts uponIs lost to them—or won them; and anon,Like a good Three set in a bald Three-score,That Glory gleams a moment—and is gone.
THINK, in this worn, forlorn old Field of Play,Whose Green-keepers in turn are Night and Day,How Champion after Champion with his PompAbode his destin’d Hour and went his way.
THEY say the Female and the Duffer strutOn sacred Greens where Morris used to putt;Himself a natural Hazard now, alas!That nice Hand quiet now, that great Eye shut.
I SOMETIMES think that never springs so greenThe Turf as where some Good Fellow has been,And every emerald Stretch the Fair Green showsHis kindly Tread has known, his sure Play seen.
AND this reviving Herb whose tender greenMuffles the fair white Sphere o’er which we lean,Ah, curse it gently, for here Jamie once—Great Jamie—lay, and fetch’d a bad Thirteen.
AH, my Belovéd, play the Round that offersTO-DAY some joy, whate’er To-morrow suffers:To-morrow!—why, to-morrow I may beMyself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Duffers.
AND some we loved, the feeblest with a Club,Ordain’d to sclaff, to foozle, and to flub,Have turned in Cards a Round or two before,And played that final Green without a Rub.
AND we that now make merry on the GreenThey left, and Summer dresses in new sheen,Ourselves must we beneath the springing TurfAdd our Ell to the Bunker of Has-been.
AH, make the most of what we yet may spendBefore we too into the Dust descend;Dust into dust, and under Dust to lie,Sans Breath, sans Golf, sans Golfer, and—sans End!
ALIKE for those who for TO-DAY prepare,And those who after some TO-MORROW stare,A Keeper from the Links of Darkness criesFools, your Reward is neither Here nor There.
WHY, all the Toms and Jamies who discuss’dOf the True Art so wisely—they are thrustLike foolish prophets forth; their Words to ScornAre scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
MYSELF when young did eagerly frequentJamie and His, and heard great argumentOf Grip and Stance and Swing; but evermoreFound at the Exit but a Dollar spent.
WITH them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,And with mine own hand sought to make it grow;And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d—“You hold it This Way, and you swing it So.”
PATIENT I fared to many a sacred Spot,Ev’n at the Shrine of Andrew cast my lot,And many a Knot unravel’d by the Road;But not, alas! of Golf the Master-knot.
THERE was a Green for which I found no Tee,And a blind Bunker which I might not see:Out of the distant Dark a Voice cries “Fore!”And then—and then no more of Thee and Me.
AS then the Sparrow for his morning Crumb,Do thou each Morrow to the First Tee come,And play thy quiet Round, till crusty AgeCondemn thee to a hopeless Dufferdom.
PERPLEXT no more with Where or How or Why,Thy easy fingers to the Shaft apply,Content to send away a fair straight Ball,Though follow’d earthward by the naked Eye.
AND if the Ball you drive, the Shaft you press,End in what all begins and ends in—Yes;Thank Heav’n you playTo-dayasYesterdayYou play’d—To-morrowyou shall not do less.
GLAD if the Master of the HandicapAt last shall find you come without Mishap,Though without Glory, to turn in the CardHe has expected of your sort of Chap.
WHAT though a Fluke should fling your Class aside,And Best Gross be your momentary pride:Are you a Golfer more than when last weekYou didYourbest, and barely saved your Hide?
’TIS like a private Bar where for a DayInnumerable Rickies come your way,Happy—but on the morrow happier farHad there been less to drink and more to pay.
AND fear not lest the Fair Green after yourIll-luck and mine should yield Bad Lies no more;One or two Others may fare ill as you:Nay, even three, or maybe—maybe four.
WHEN you and I our final Match have play’d,Think not the ever-springing Green shall fade;Which of our Coming and Departure heedsAs Caddies heed the Bag,—their Quarter paid.
A MOMENT’S Flight—a momentary FlickOf Being from the Providential Stick,And Lo!—the phantom human Sphere has reachtThe Nothing it set out from—Ah, be quick!
WOULD you that Fillip of Existence spendAbout THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend!A Hair perhaps divides the False and True,And upon what, prithee, does this Golf depend?
A HAIR perhaps divides the False and True,Yes, and a single Jamie were the Clue—Could you but find him—to the Championship,And peradventure to the Champion too.
AND yet what matter who a Moment reigns?’Tis not for such a Toy you take your pains;To play the steady, simple, honest Game;That is the Joy and Credit that remains.
BEHIND the uprisen Turf fair in the Ditch,To risk the Overhang, or play back—whichTo do? Ah, Brother, let the Gallery go:Than tear the Web, better to drop a Stitch!
TWO—Three—aye, better Golf we all have seen—But—bravo! Four—a sweet Approach and Clean;Steady, you still may well go down in Five:There are no Hazards on the Putting-Green.
WASTE not your Hour, nor try in vain to fixThe How and Why—some wondrous Brew to mix;Better be jocund with a calm Two-scoreThan sadden for a bitter Thirty-six.
STRANGE, is it not?—that of the myriads whoInto the Out-of-Bounds have late play’d through,Not one returns to tell us of the StrokeTo guarantee the shortest Hole in Two.
THE Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,But Here or There as strikes the Player goes,And ye who play behold the Ball fly clean,Or roll a Rod; but why? Who knows? Who knows?
THE swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck,Moves on: nor all your Wit or future LuckShall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke,Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck.
NO hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize:The batter’d, blacken’d Re-made sweetly flies,Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the truth:Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.
AND that inverted Ball they call the High—By which the Duffer thinks to live or die,Lift not your hands toItfor help, for itAs impotently froths as you or I.
OF Earth’s first Clay was the last Golfer framed,And that last Golfer’s latest Score was namedWhen the first Morning of Creation sangThe Dirge of every Duffer Golf has claimed.
YESTERDAY this Day’s Foozling did prepare;To-morrow’sSlicing will not yield to Prayer:Play! for you know not whence you came, nor why:Play! for you know not why you go, nor where.
I TELL you this—When, after youth was past,A kindly Heav’n gave me to Golf at last;No Freedom but I gladly barter’d forThe satisfying Bond that holds me fast.
AND this I know: there is a Charm aboutThe quiet State of Golf, tho’ fools may flout,That with its magic has unlock’d the DoorOf Happiness they only howl without.
* * * *
AS under cover of departing DaySlinks the defeated Duffer on his way,Once more within the Maker’s house aloneI stood, surrounded by the Tools of Play.
CLUBS of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,That stood along the floor and by the wall;And some old batter’d Veterans were; and someHad swung perhaps, but never driv’n at all.
SAID one among them—“Surely not for naughtTom Morris fashion’d me with anxious thought,Has not my Form won many a Match and Cup?And yet—and yet—I am no longer bought.”
THEN said a Second—“Hear the Codger croak!Sure he would make of Golf an ancient Joke;But Me—just think! a modern Willie Park,My fickle Owner cannot sell nor soak!”
AFTER a momentary silence spakeA Brassie of a more ungainly make—“They sneer at me for leaning all awry:Well, then, I ask who won the last Sweepstake?”
WHEREAT some one of the loquacious Lot,I think a putting Niblick, or if not,A driving Putter, or a goose-neck’d Cleek—“Pray, what is Golf then,—and the Golfer what?”
“WHY,” said another, “Some there are who sayThat Golf is but a Game that Golfers play,And some that Life is but a mighty Green,And Golf the Art to use it day by day.”
“WELL,” murmur’d one, “let whoso make or buy,All in one Pickle we—like as we lie:For let the right Good-Fellow come along,We all may lay the Ball dead by and by.”
SO one and one and one I heard them speak:“Ah, Friends,” said I, “’tis not a Make we seek,A Duffer arm’d with all the Clubs there be—What is he to a Player with a Cleek?”
* * * *
LATELY, agape beside the door of Fame,Sudden a Touch upon my shoulder came,And thro’ the Dusk an Angel Shape held outThe greater Guerdon; and it was—the Game!
THE Game that can with Logic absoluteThe Dronings of the Soberheads confute,Silence the scoffing ones, and in a triceLife’s leaden metal into Gold transmute.
INDEED, the brave Game I have loved so wellHas little taught me how to buy or sell;Has pawn’d my Greatness for an Hour of Ease,And barter’d cold Cash for—a Miracle.
INDEED, indeed, Repentance oft beforeI swore—but it was Winter when I swore,And then and then came Spring, and Club-in-handI hasten’d forth for one Round—one Round more.
BUT much as Golf has play’d the Infidel,And robb’d me of my worldly Profit—Well,I often wonder what the Grubbers earnOne half so precious as the Joy they sell.
WHAT! for a senseless Bank-Account to wreakTheir manly Strength on Ledgers, till too weakTo swing a club?—So Caddies calmly treadIn Mire the Ball Heav’n sent them here to seek.
WHAT! as a poor dull Drudge to waste the ForceThat might have made a Golfer, till the SourceOf Golf be dried—and Life grow all too briefTo top a Ball around the Ladies’ Course!
YET, ah, that Golf should vanish with the green!What noble matches Winter might have seen;And in Old Age what glorious Hazards foil’d,What Zest of painful Pleasures might have been!
WOULD but the dim Face of old Winter yieldOne glimpse of green, like Youth to Age reveal’d,Thro’ which once more the failing Limbs might springAs springs the trampled Herbage of the Field.
AH! with the Green my fading life provide,Some ancient golfing Crony by my side:Content to play one Round, or, meeker still,To mix a gentle Foursome satisfied.
THAT even the wavering Remnant of the SwingMay bear some witness to my virtuous Spring,And leave no True-believer passing-byUnedified by its Admonishing.
WOULD but the god of Golfers ere too lateArrest the sure-advancing step of Fate,What matter if we play the Odd or Like?Or—if we play—hole out in Four or Eight?
AH, let the Honor go to Fate, and letAll difficulties by that Crack be met;The Duffer still may win a Half or two,Content while Fate is only Dormie yet.
OR if ev’n this be taken, you and IMay still fare onward calmly, honestly,Nor care how many Down the Record stand:The Match is over—Let us play the Bye!
YON rising Moon that leads us Home again,How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;How oft hereafter rising wait for usAt this same Turning—and forOnein vain.
AND when, like her, my Golfer, I have beenAnd am no more above the pleasant Green,And you in your mild Journey pass the HoleI made in One—ah! pay my Forfeit then!
TAMÁM