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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:07:46 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:07:46 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/37323-8.txt b/37323-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4fc2e9 --- /dev/null +++ b/37323-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2276 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Poems on Golf, by Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems on Golf + +Author: Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +Release Date: September 6, 2011 [EBook #37323] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON GOLF *** + + + + +Produced by C.S. Beers, Greg Bergquist and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + + [Illustration: POEMS ON GOLF] + + + + + POEMS + ON + GOLF + + [Decoration] + + EDINBURGH + Printed for Private Circulation + 1867 + + [Illustration: J.M. CORNER] + + + + +Some Members of THE EDINBURGH BURGESS GOLFING SOCIETY having resolved to +collect and print a few fugitive pieces in verse relating to the game of +GOLF, the following Poems and Songs have been after some labour +procured, and are now printed (some for the first time) for private +circulation among the Subscribers whose names are appended. + + EDINBURGH, _April 1867_. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + PAGE + + THE GOFF, an Heroi-comical Poem 1 + + GOLFIANA--Address to St. Andrews 20 + + " The Golfiad 22 + + " The first Hole at St. Andrews + on a crowded day 29 + + " Another Peep at the Links 36 + + THE NINE HOLES OF ST. ANDREWS LINKS 48 + + SCRAP--"The following scrap" &c. 56 + + SONG--The Golfers' Garland 57 + + " The Links o' Innerleven 60 + + " In praise of Gutta Percha 63 + + " "Far and Sure" 66 + + " "Gae bring my guid auld clubs" 68 + + " "Come, leave your dingy desks" 73 + + " "When Tom and me were laddies" 77 + + + + + LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. + + + BANNATYNE, ADAM B., Advocate. + BARCLAY, JAS., Writer. + BAYLEY, GEO., W.S. + BELL, W. H., A.C.S. + BEVERIDGE, WILL. T. R., A.C.S. + BRODIE, WM., R.S.A. + BROWN, W. A., Advocate. + BROWN, THOMAS, Writer. + BURN, GEORGE, W.S. + + CALDER, A., Insurance Manager. + CHISHOLM, JOHN K., Dentist. + CLARK, AND. R., Advocate. + CLARK, R., Printer. + CURROR, D., S.S.C. + + DRUMMOND, JAMES, R.S.A. + DRYSDALE, WILLIAM, D.C.S. + + FRASER, WM. N., of Tornaveen. + + GOUGH, OWEN, Holyrood Palace. + + HAY, JAMES, Esq., Leith. + HENDERSON, ANDREW, Writer. + HENDERSON, DAVID, Writer. + HUTCHISON, H., Writer. + HUTTON, WM., Writer. + + JACK, JNO., Writer. + JAMIESON, JAMES T., S.S.C. + JOHNSTON, ROB., Solicitor. + + KINNEAR, JAS., Writer. + KIRKWOOD, JAMES, Merchant. + + LANDALE, THO., S.S.C. + LEE, ROBERT, Advocate. + LEGGAT, JAMES, Coal Master. + LEISHMAN, JOHN, W.S. + + MACKENZIE, JOHN, W.S. + MACMILLAN, H., Writer. + M'EWEN, J., Writer. + MANN, W., Writer. + MELVILLE, F. SUTHER, A.C.S. + MILLAR, WM., Board of Supervision. + MITCHELL, A., Banker. + MONCREIFF, JAMES, M.P., Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. + MONCRIEFF, A., Advocate. + MORRISON, AD., S.S.C. + MURRAY, ANDW., Jun., W.S. + + PATTISON, G. H., Advocate. + + REID, WILLIAM, Writer. + + SHAW, ROBERT B., Assistant Clerk of the Bills. + SMITH, DANIEL, Corn Factor. + STEVEN, ROBERT, Writer. + STEVENSON, PETER, Philosophical Instrument Maker. + + THOMS, GEO. H., Advocate. + THOMPSON, J. GIBSON. + THOMSON, JOHN, S.S.C. + THOMSON, W. M., Advocate. + + WADDELL, ALEX. PEDDIE, W.S. + WELCH, C., Writer, Cupar. + WILLIAMSON, JAMES, Traveller. + WILSON, GEO. B., Accountant. + + YOUNG, J. WM., 22 Royal Circus. + + * * * * * + + + + + [Decoration] + + 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 balls 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, Goddess 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 shore. + 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 _Dickson_, 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 Goddess 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 Goddess 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 passed + 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 noblest 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 Goddess 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 Goddess 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, + Assist 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 balls instruct my Muse to soar: + So may thy green for ever crowded be, + And balls on balls 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 assert 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 balls with careful eye, + That with _Clarinda's_ breasts 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-stitched 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 cock. + 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 balls. + But when the glorious God 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 balls 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 balls 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 balls 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 shore. + Then great _Castalio_ his whole strength collects, + And on the orb a noble 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 _Parnassus_ view + The subject world, and all that's done below; + Who from oblivion snatch 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 Goddess 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 shining 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 goddess, 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. + To whom GOLFINIA: Fate-fulfilling maid, + Hear the Fates' will, and be their will obey'd: + Straight to the field of fight thyself convey, + Where brave _Castalio_ and _Pygmalion_ stray; + There bid the long-protracted combat cease, + And with thy bays _Castalio's_ temples grace.-- + She said; and swift, as _Hermes_ from above + Shoots to perform the high behests of _Jove_, + VICTORIA from her sister's presence flies, + Pleased to bestow the long-disputed prize. + Meanwhile the chiefs for the last hole contend, + The last great hole, which should their labours end; + For this the chiefs exert their skill and might, + To drive the balls, and to direct their flight. + Thus two fleet coursers for the Royal plate + (The others distanc'd) run the final heat; + With all his might each gen'rous racer flies, + And all his art each panting rider tries, + While show'rs of gold and praises warm his breast, + And gen'rous emulation fires the beast. + His trusty club _Pygmalion_ dauntless plies: + The ball ambitious climbs the lofty skies; + But soon, ah! soon, descends upon the field, + The adverse winds the lab'ring orb repell'd. + Thus when a fowl, whom wand'ring sportsmen scare, + Leaves the sown land, and mounts the fields of air, + Short is his flight; the fiery _Furies_ wound, + And bring him tumbling headlong to the ground. + Not so _Castalio_ lifts th' unerring club, + But with superior art attacks the globe; + The well-struck ball the stormy wind beguil'd, + And like a swallow skimm'd along the field. + An harmless sheep, by Fate decreed to fall, + Feels the dire fury of the rapid ball; + Full on her front the raging bullet flew, + And sudden anguish seiz'd the silent ewe; + Stagg'ring, she falls upon the verdant plain, + Convulsive pangs distract her wounded brain. + Great PAN beheld her stretch'd upon the grass, + Nor unreveng'd permits the crime to pass: + Th' _Arcadian_ God, with grief and fury stung, + Snatch'd his stout crook, and fierce to vengeance sprung; + His faithful dogs their master's steps pursue; + The fleecy flocks before their father bow,-- + With bleatings hoarse salute him as he strode; + And frisking lambkins dance around the God. + The sire of sheep then lifted from the ground + The panting dam, and piss'd upon the wound: + The stream divine soon eas'd the mother's pain; + The wise immortals never piss in vain. + Then to the ball his horny foot applies, + Before his foot the kick'd offender flies. + The hapless orb a gaping face detain'd; + Deep sunk in sand the hapless orb remain'd. + As VERDURILLA mark'd the ball's arrest, + She with resentment fired _Castalio's_ breast. + The nymph assum'd _Patrico's_ shape and mien, + Like great _Patrico_ stalk'd along the green; + So well his manner and his accent feign'd, + _Castalio_ deemed _Patrico's_ self complain'd. + Ah, sad disgrace! see rustic herds invade + GOLFINIAN plains, the angry fairy said: + Your ball abus'd, your hopes and projects cross'd, + The game endanger'd, and the hole nigh lost. + Thus brutal PAN resents his wounded ewe, + Tho' chance, not you, did guide the fatal blow. + Incens'd _Castalio_ makes her no replies, + T' attack the God, the furious mortal flies; + His iron-headed club around he swings, + And fierce at PAN the pond'rous weapon flings. + Affrighted PAN the dreadful missive shunn'd, + But blameless _Tray_ receiv'd a deadly wound: + Ill-fated _Tray_ no more the flocks shall tend, + In anguish doom'd his shorten'd life to end. + Nor could great PAN afford a timely aid; + Great PAN himself before the hero fled: + Even he--a God--a mortal's fury dreads, + And far and fast from bold _Castalio_ speeds. + To free the ball the chief now turns his mind, + Flies to the bank where lay the orb confined; + The pond'rous club upon the ball descends, + Involv'd in dust th' exulting orb ascends. + Their loud applause the pleas'd spectators raise; + The hollow bank resounds _Castalio's_ praise. + A mighty blow _Pygmalion_ then lets fall, + Straight from th' impulsive engine starts the ball, + Answ'ring its master's just design, it hastes, + And from the hole scarce twice two clubs' length rests. + Ah! what avails thy skill, since fate decrees + Thy conqu'ring foe to bear away the prize? + Full fifteen clubs' length from the hole he lay + A wide cart-road before him cross'd his way; + The deep-cut tracks th' intrepid chief defies; + High o'er the road the ball triumphing flies, + Lights on the green, and scours into the hole; + Down with it sinks depress'd _Pygmalion's_ soul. + Seiz'd with surprise, th' affrighted hero stands, + And feebly tips the ball with trembling hands. + The creeping ball its want of force complains, + A grassy tuft the loit'ring orb detains. + Surrounding crowds the victor's praise proclaim, + The echoing shore resounds _Castalio's_ name. + For him _Pygmalion_ must the bowl prepare, + To him must yield the honours of the war; + On fame's triumphant wings his name shall soar + Till time shall end, or GOFFING be no more. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ADDRESS TO ST. ANDREWS. + + + St. Andrews! they say that thy glories are gone, + That thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'erthrown: + If thy glories _be_ gone, they are only, methinks, + As it were, by enchantment, transferr'd to thy Links. + Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates, + Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots, + Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers, + When we say that instead there are Links full of Goffers, + With more of good heart and good feeling among them + Than the abbots, the monks, or the zealots who sung them: + We have red coats and bonnets, we've putters and clubs; + The green has its bunkers, its hazards, and _rubs_; + At the long hole across we have biscuits and beer, + And the Hebes who sell it give zest to the cheer: + If this make not up for the pomp and the splendour + Of mitres, and murders, and mass--we'll surrender; + If Goffers and caddies be not better neighbours + Than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres, + Let such fancies remain with the fool who so thinks, + While we toast old St. Andrews, its Goffers and Links. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE GOLFIAD. + + _Arma, virumq. cano._--VIRGIL, _Æn._ i. l. 1. + + + Balls, clubs, and men I sing, who first, methinks, + Made sport and bustle on North Berwick Links, + Brought coin and fashion, betting, and renown, + Champagne and claret, to a country town, + And lords and ladies, knights and squires, to ground + Where washerwomen erst and snobs were found! + + Had I the powers of him who sung of Troy-- + Gem of the learned, bore of every boy-- + Or him, the bard of Rome, who, later, told + How great Æneas roam'd and fought of old-- + I then might shake the gazing world like them; + For who denies I have as grand a theme? + Time-honour'd Golf!--I heard it whisper'd once + That he who could not play was held a dunce + On old Olympus, when it teem'd with gods. + O rare!--but it's a lie--I'll bet the odds! + No doubt these heathen gods, the very minute + They knew the game, would have delighted in it! + Wars, storms, and thunders--all would have been off! + Mars, Jove, and Neptune would have studied Golf, + And swiped--like Oliphant and Wood below-- + Smack over hell[2] at one immortal go! + Had Mecca's Prophet known the noble game + Before he gave his paradise to fame, + He would have promis'd, in the land of light, + Golf all the day--and Houris all the night! + But this is speculation: we must come, + And work the subject rather nearer home; + Lest, in attempting all too high to soar, + We fall, like Icarus, to rise no more. + + The game is ancient--manly--and employs, + In its departments, women, men, and boys: + Men play the game, the boys the clubs convey, + And lovely woman gives the prize away, + When August brings the great, the medal day! + Nay, more: tho' some may doubt, and sneer, and scoff, + The female muse has sung the game of Goff, + And trac'd it down, with choicest skill and grace, + Thro' all its bearings, to the human race; + The tee, the start of youth--the game, our life-- + The ball when fairly bunkered, man and wife. + + Now, Muse, assist me while I strive to name + The varied skill and chances of the game. + Suppose we play a match: if all agree, + Let Clan and Saddell tackle Baird and me. + Reader, attend! and learn to play at Goff; + The lord of Saddell and myself strike off! + He strikes--he's in the ditch--this hole is ours; + Bang goes my ball--it's bunker'd, by the pow'rs. + But better play succeeds, these blunders past, + And in six strokes the hole is halved at last. + + O hole! tho' small, and scarcely to be seen, + Till we are close upon thee, on the green; + And tho' when seen, save Golfers, few can prize, + The value, the delight that in thee lies; + Yet, without thee, our tools were useless all-- + The club, the spoon, the putter, and the ball: + For all is done--each ball arranged on tee, + Each stroke directed--but to enter thee! + If--as each tree, and rock, and cave of old, + Had _its_ presiding nymph, as we are told-- + Thou hast _thy_ nymph; I ask for nothing but + Her aid propitious when I come to putt. + Now for the second: And here Baird and Clan + In turn must prove which is the better man: + Sir David swipes sublime!--into the quarry![3] + Whiz goes the chief--a sneezer,[4] by Old Harry! + "Now, lift the stones, but do not touch the ball, + The hole is lost if it but move at all: + Well play'd, my cock! you could not have done more; + 'Tis bad, but still we may get home at four." + Now, near the hole Sir David plays the odds; + Clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods! + "A most disgusting _steal_;[5] well, come away, + They're one ahead, but we have four to play. + We'll win it yet, if I can cross the ditch: + They're over, smack! come, there's another _sich_."[6] + Baird plays a trump--we hole at three--they stare, + And miss their putt--so now the match is square. + + And here, who knows but, as old Homer sung, + The scales of fight on Jove's own finger hung? + Here Clan and Saddell; there swing Baird and I,-- + Our merits, that's to say; for half an eye + Could tell, if _bodies_ in the scales were laid, + Which must descend, and which must rise ahead. + + If Jove were thus engaged, we did not see him, + But told our boys to clean the balls and tee 'em. + In this next hole the turf is most uneven; + We play like tailors--only in at seven, + And they at six; most miserable play! + But let them laugh who win. Hear Saddell say, + "Now, by the piper who the pibroch played + Before old Moses, we are one ahead, + And only two to play--a special _coup_! + Three five-pound notes to one!" "Done, sir, with you." + We start again; and in this dangerous hole[7] + Full many a stroke is played with heart and soul: + "Give me the iron!" either party cries, + As in the quarry, track, or sand he lies. + We reach the green at last, at even strokes; + Some caddy chatters, _that_ the chief provokes, + And makes him miss his putt; Baird holes the ball; + Thus, with but one to play, 'tis even all! + 'Tis strange, and yet there cannot be a doubt, + That such a snob should put a chieftain out: + The noble lion, thus, in all his pride, + Stung by the gadfly, roars and starts aside; + Clan did _not_ roar--_he_ never makes a noise-- + But said, "They're very troublesome, these boys." + His partner muttered something not so civil, + Particularly, "scoundrels"--"at the devil!" + Now Baird and Clan in turn strike off and play[8] + Two strokes, the best that have been seen to-day. + His spoon next Saddell takes, and plays a trump-- + Mine should have been as good but for a bump + That turn'd it off. Baird plays the odds--it's all + But in!--at five yards, good, Clan holes the ball! + My partner, self, and song--all three are done! + We lose the match, and all the bets thereon! + Perhaps you think that, tho' I'm not a winner, + My muse should stay and celebrate the dinner; + The ample joints that travel up the stair, + To grace the table spread by Mrs. Blair; + The wine, the ale, the toasts, the jokes, the songs, + And all that to such revelry belongs;-- + It may not be! 'twere fearful falling off + To sing such trifles after singing Golf + In most majestic strain; let others dwell + On such, and rack their carnal brains to tell + A tale of sensuality!--Farewell! + +[Footnote 2: Hell is a range of broken ground on St. Andrews Links, +bearing probably the same proportion to the _ordinary_ course of the +Links as hell would to heaven in the opinion of these immortals.] + +[Footnote 3: A place on North Berwick Links, so awkward, that in playing +out of it one is allowed to remove everything, provided the position of +the ball is not altered.] + +[Footnote 4: A long and scientific stroke at golf.] + +[Footnote 5: _Steal_, the act of holing the ball contrary to +probability.] + +[Footnote 6: A slang term for _such_.] + +[Footnote 7: Fifth hole.] + +[Footnote 8: Sixth hole.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS ON A CROWDED DAY. + + _Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit._--ÆN. i. l. 208. + + + 'Tis morn! and man awakes, by sleep refresh'd, + To do whate'er he has to do with zest; + But at St. Andrews, where my scene is laid, + _One_ only thought can enter every head; + The thought of Golf, to wit--and that engages + Men of all sizes, tempers, ranks, and ages; + The root--the _primum mobile_ of all, + The epidemic of the club and ball; + The work by day, the source of dreams by night, + The never-failing fountain of delight! + Here, Mr. Philp, club-maker, is as great + _As Philip_--as any minister of state! + And every caddy as profess'd a hero + As Captain Cook, or Wellington, or Nero! + For instance--Davie, oldest of the cads, + Who gives _half-one_ to unsuspicious lads, + When he _might_ give them _two_, or even _more_, + And win, perhaps, three matches out of four, + Is just as politic in _his_ affairs + As Talleyrand or Metternich in _theirs_. + He has the statesman's elements, 'tis plain, + Cheat, flatter, humbug--_anything_ for gain; + And had he trod the world's wide field, methinks, + As long as he has trod St. Andrews Links, + He might have been prime minister, or priest, + My lord, or plain _Sir David_ at the least! + + Now, to the ground of Golf my muse shall fly, + The various men assembled to descry, + Nine-tenths of whom, throughout the rolling year, + At the first hole _unfailingly_ appear; + Where, "How d'ye do?" "Fine morning," "Rainy day," + And, "What's the match?" are preludes to the play. + So full the meeting that I scarcely can, + In such a crowd, distinguish man from man. + We'll take them as they come:--He next the wall, + Outside, upon the right, is Mr. Saddell; + And well he plays, though, rising on his toes, + Whiz round his head his _supple_ club he throws. + There, Doctor Moodie, turtle-like, displays + His well-filled paunch, and swipes beyond all praise; + While Cuttlehill, of slang and chatter chief, + Provokes the bile of Captain George Moncrieffe. + See Colonel Playfair, shaped in form _rotund_, + Parade, the unrivall'd Falstaff of the ground; + He laughs and jokes, plays, "what you like," and yet + You'll rarely find him make a foolish bet. + Against the sky, display'd in high relief, + I see the figure of Clanranald's Chief, + Dress'd most correctly in the _fancy_ style, + Well-whisker'd face, and radiant with a smile; + He bows, shakes hands, and has a word for all-- + So did Beau Nash, as master of the ball! + Near him is Saddell, dress'd in blue coat plain, + With lots of Gourlays,[9] free from spot or stain; + He whirls his club to catch the proper _swing_, + And freely bets round all the scarlet ring; + And swears by _Ammon_, he'll engage to drive + As long a ball as any man alive! + That's Major Playfair, a man of nerve unshaken-- + He knows a thing or two, or I'm mistaken; + And when he's press'd, can play a tearing game, + He works for _certainty_ and not for _Fame_! + There's none--I'll back the assertion with a wager-- + Can play the _heavy iron_ like the Major. + Next him is Craigie Halkett, one who can + Swipe out, for distance, against any man; + But in what _course_ the ball so struck may go, + No looker on--not he himself--can know. + See Major Holcroft, he's a steady hand + Among the best of all the Golfing band; + He plays a winning game in every part, + But near the hole displays the greatest art. + There young Patullo stands, and he, methinks, + Can drive the longest ball upon the Links; + And well he plays the spoon and iron, but + He fails a _little_ when he comes to _putt_. + Near Captain Cheape, a sailor by profession + (But not so good at Golf as navigation), + Is Mr. Peter Glass, who once could play + A better game than he can do to-day. + We cannot last for ever! and the _gout_, + Confirmed, is wondrous apt to put us out. + There, to the left, I see Mount-Melville stand + Erect, his _driving putter_ in his hand; + It is a club he cannot leave behind, + It works the balls so well against the wind. + Sir David Erskine has come into play, + He has not won the medal _yet_, but _may_. + Dost love the greatest laugher of the lot?-- + Then play a round with little Mr. Scott: + He is a merry cock, and seems to me + To win or lose with equal ecstasy. + Here's Mr. Messieux, he's a noble player, + But something _nervous_--that's a bad affair; + It sadly spoils his putting, when he's _press'd_-- + But let him _win_, and he will beat the _best_. + That little man that's seated on the ground + In red, must be Carnegie, I'll be bound! + A most conceited dog, not slow to _go it_ + At Golf, or anything--a _sort_ of poet; + He talks to Wood--John Wood--who ranks among + The tip-top hands that to the Club belong; + And Oliphant, the rival of the last, + Whose play, at times, can scarcely be surpass'd. + Who's he that's just arrived?--I know him well; + It is the Cupar Provost, John Dalzell: + When he _does_ hit the ball, he swipes like blazes-- + It is but _seldom_, and _himself_ amazes; + But when he winds his horn, and leads the chase, + The Laird of Lingo's in his proper place. + It has been _said_ that, at the _break of day_ + His Golf is better than his evening play: + That must be scandal; for I am sure that none + Could think of Golf before the rise of sun. + He now is talking to his lady's brother, + A man of politics, Sir Ralph Anstruther: + Were he but once in Parliament, methinks, + And working _there_ as well as on the _Links_, + The burghs, I'll be bound, would not repent them + That they had such a man to represent them: + There's _one thing_ only--when he's _on the roll_, + He must not lose his _nerve_, as when he's near the hole. + Upon his right is Major Bob Anstruther; + Cobbet's _one_ radical--and he's _another_. + + But when we meet, as here, to play at Golf, + Whig, Radical, and Tory--all are off-- + Off the contested politics, I mean-- + And fun and harmony illume the scene. + We make our matches from the love of playing, + Without one loathsome feeling but the _paying_, + And that is lessened by the thought, we _borrow_ + Only to-day what we shall _win_ to-morrow. + Then, here's prosperity to Golf! and long + May those who play be cheerful, fresh, and strong; + When _driving_ ceases, may we still be able + To play the _shorts_, _putt_, and be comfortable! + And to the latest may we fondly cherish + The thoughts of Golf--so let St. Andrews flourish! + +[Footnote 9: Meaning plenty of balls, made by Mr. Gourlay of Bruntsfield +Links, a famous artist. The gentleman alluded to generally has, at +_least_, twelve dozen.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. + + _Alter erit tum Typhys, et altera quæ vehat Argo + Dilectos heroas--erunt etiam altera bella._ + VIRG. GEORGIC. + + + Awake, my slumb'ring Muse, and plume thy wing, + Our former theme--the Game of Golf--to sing! + For since the subject last inspired my pen, + Ten years have glided by, or nearly ten. + Still the old hands at Golf delight to play-- + Still new succeed them as they pass away; + Still ginger-beer and parliament are seen + Serv'd out by Houris to the peopled green; + And still the royal game maintains its place, + And will maintain it through each rising race. + + Still Major Playfair shines, a star at Golf; + And still the Colonel--though a _little_ off; + The former, skill'd in many a curious art, + As chemist, mechanist, can play his part, + And understands, besides the pow'r of swiping, + _Electro-Talbot_ and Daguerreotyping. + Still Colonel Holcroft steady walks the grass, + And still his putting nothing can surpass-- + And still he drives, unless the weather's rough, + Not quite so far as _once_, but far enough. + + Still Saddell walks, superb, improved in play, + Though his blue jacket now is turn'd to grey; + Still are his balls as rife and clean as wont-- + Still swears by Ammon, and still bets the _blunt_-- + Still plays all matches--still is often beat-- + And still in iced punch drowns each fresh defeat. + + Still on the green Clanranald's chief appears, + As gay as ever, as untouch'd by years; + He laughs at Time, and Time, perhaps through whim, + Respects his nonchalance, and laughs at him; + Just fans him with his wings, but spares his head, + As loth to lose a subject so well bred. + + Sir Ralph returns--he has been absent long-- + No less renown'd in Golfing than in song; + With continental learning richly stored, + Teutonic Bards translated and explored; + A _literaire_--a German scholar now, + With all _Griselda's_ honours on his brow! + + The Links have still the pleasure to behold + Messieux, complete in matches, as of old; + He, modest, tells you that his day's gone by: + If any think it _is so_--let them try! + Still portly William Wood is to be seen, + As good as ever on the velvet green, + The same unfailing trump; but John, methinks, + Has taken to the _Turf_, and shies the Links. + + Whether the _Leger_ and the _Derby_ pay + As well as _Hope Grant_, I can scarcely say; + But let that be--'tis better, John, old fellow, + To pluck the _rooks_, than _rook_ the _violoncello_. + + Permit me just a moment to digress-- + Friendship would chide me should I venture less-- + The poor Chinese, there cannot be a doubt, + Will shortly be demolish'd out and out; + But--O how blest beyond the common line + Of conquer'd nations by the Power divine!-- + _Saltoun_ to cut their yellow throats, and then + _Hope Grant_ to play their requiem-notes--Amen! + + Still George Moncrieffe appears the crowd before, + _Lieutenant-Colonel_--Captain now no more; + Improv'd in ev'rything--in looks and life, + And, more than all, the husband of a wife! + + As in the olden time, see Craigie Halkett-- + Wild strokes and swiping, jest, and fun, and rackett; + He leaves us now. But in three years, I trust, + He will return, and sport his _muzzle dust_, + Play Golf again, and patronise all cheer, + From noble _Claret_ down to _bitter beer_. + + Mount-Melville still erect as ever stands, + And plies his club with energetic hands, + Plays short and steady, often is a winner-- + A better Captain never graced a dinner. + + 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 balls? + 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 Glass, 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 snatch'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 balls 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 hits 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 surpassed-- + 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 competition! + + 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, balls, and everything. + But all that's bright must fade, and we who play, + Like those before us, soon must pass 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 passed, 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 _Principalian 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 balls + 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. + + R. C. + + + IV. THE FOURTH OR GINGER-BEER HOLE. + + Though thou hast lost this last unlucky hole, + I say again, betake thee not to swearing, + Or any form of speech profanely daring, + Though some allege it tendeth to console. + Better do thou thy swelling griefs control, + Sagacious that at hand a joy awaits thee + (Since out of doubt a glass of beer elates thee), + Without that frightful peril to thy soul. + A glass of beer! go dip thine angry beak in it, + And straight its rage will melt to soft placidity, + That solace finding thou art wise to seek in it; + Ah, do not thou on this poor plea reject it, + That in thy inwards it will breed acidity-- + One glass of Stewart's brandy will correct it. + + P. A. + + + V. THE HELL HOLE. + + What daring genius first yclept thee Hell? + What high, poetic, awe-struck grand old Golfer, + Much more of a mythologist than scoffer! + Whoe'er he was, the name befits thee well. + "All hope abandon, ye who enter here," + Is written awful o'er thy gloomy jaws, + A threat to all save Allan might give pause: + And frequent from within come tones of fear-- + Dread sound of cleeks, which ever fall in vain, + And--for mere mortal patience is but scanty-- + Shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain, + Dire gnashings of the teeth, and horrid curses, + With which I need not decorate my verses, + Because, in fact, you'll find them all in Dante. + + P. A. + + + VI. THE HEATHER HOLE. + + Ah me! prodigious woes do still environ-- + To quote verbatim from some grave old poet-- + The man who needs must meddle with his _iron_; + And here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it. + For now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins, + Tilling some bunker, as if on a lease of it, + And so assiduous to make due increase of it; + Or wandering homeless through a world of whins! + And when, these perils past, thou seemest _dead_. + And hop'st a half--O woe, the ball goes crooked, + Making thy foe just one more hole ahead, + Surely a consummation all too sad, + Without that sneering devilish "Never lookit," + The parting comment of the opposing cad. + + P. A. + + + VII. THE HIGH OR EDEN HOLE. + + The shelly pit is cleared at one fell blow, + A stroke to be remembered in your dreams! + But here the Eden on your vision gleams, + Lovely, but treach'rous in its solemn flow. + The hole is perched aloft, too near the tide, + The green is small, and broken is the ground + Which doth that little charmed space surround! + Go not too far, and go not to a side; + Take the short spoon to do your second stroke; + Sandy entreats you will the wind take heed on, + For, oh, it would a very saint provoke, + If you should let your ball plump in the Eden. + You do your best, but who can fate control? + So here against you is another hole. + + R. C. Jr. + + + VIII. THE SHORT HOLE. + + Brief but not easy is the next adventure; + Legend avers it has been done in _one_, + Though such long _steals_ are now but rarely done-- + In _three_ 'twere well that you the hole should enter. + Strangely original is this bit of ground, + For, while at hand the smooth and smiling green, + One bunker wide and bushy yawns between, + Where Tyro's gutta is too often found. + Nervous your rival strikes and heels his ball-- + From that whin-bush at six he'll scarce extract it: + Yours, by no blunder this time counteracted, + Is with the grass-club lofted over all. + There goes a hole in your side--how you hug it! + Much as th' Australian digger does a nugget. + + R. C. Jr. + + + IX. THE END HOLE. + + The end, but not the end--the distance-post + That halves the game--a serious point to thee, + For if one more thou losest, 'twill be _three_: + Yet even in that case, think not all is lost. + Men four behind have been, on the return, + So favoured by Olympus, or by care, + That all their terrors vanished into air, + And caddies cried them _dormy_ at the burn! + I could quote proverbs, did I speak at random: + Full many a broken ship comes into port, + Full many a cause is gained at last resort, + But Golf impresses most, _Nil desperandum_. + Turn, then, my son, with two against, nor dread + To gain the winning-post with one ahead. + + R. C. Jr. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + + The following SCRAP relative to GOLF occurs in a very rare work + entitled _Westminster Drollery_, 12mo, 1671, p. 28. + + A Song called-- + + "And to each pretty lass + We will give a green gown." + + Thus all our life long we are frolick and gay, + And instead of Court revels we merrily play + At Trap, at Rules, and at Barly-break run, + At GOFF and at Foot-Ball; and when we have done + These innocent sports, we'll laugh and lie down, + And to each pretty lass + We will give a green gown. + + _N.B._--The above was copied from a book containing many + curious Scraps relating to Golfing, Archery, and Curling, + belonging to JAMES MAIDMENT, Esq., advocate. + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE GOLFER'S GARLAND.[10] + + + Of rural diversions, too long has the chase + All the honours usurped, and assumed the chief place; + But truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim, + That Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen, + And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green; + From vig'rous exertions our pleasures arise, + And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + O'er the green see our heroes in uniform clad, + In parties well matched how they gracefully spread, + Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal, + And with putt well directed plump into the hole. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + From exercise keen, from strength active and bold, + We traverse the green, and forget to grow old; + Blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care, + Are knock'd down by our balls as they whiz through the air. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + The strong-sinew'd son of Alcmena would drub, + And demolish a monster when armed with a club; + But what were the monsters which Hercules slew, + To those fiends which each week with our balls we subdue? + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame, + Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game: + A sport so distinguished the fair must approve; + So to Golf give the day and the evening to love. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + Our first standing toast we to Golfing assign, + No other amusement so truly divine; + It has charms for the aged, as well as the young, + Then as first of field sports let its praises be sung. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + And to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill, + A bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill; + Our charming instructresses--blessings attend them, + And cursed be the clown who would dare to offend them! + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + The next we shall drink to our friends far and near; + To the mem'ry of those who no longer appear, + Who have play'd their last round, and passed over that bourne + From which the best Golfer can never return. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + Then fill up your glass, and let each social soul + Drink to the putter, the balls, and the hole; + And may every true Golfer invariably find + His opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + +[Footnote 10: From Mathieson's Poem "The Goff" 1743, with the exception +of the 5th verse, which was copied by a member of the Burgess Club from +a version of the song found on an old bookstall.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE LINKS O' INNERLEVEN. + + SUNG AT THE AUTUMN MEETING OF THE INNERLEVEN + GOLFING CLUB, 1841. + + TUNE--_Dainty Davie._ + + + Wha wad be free from doctor's bills-- + From trash o' powders and o' pills-- + Will find a cure for a' his ills + On the Links o' Innerleven. + For there whar lassies bleach their claes, + And bairnies toddle doun the braes, + The merry Golfer daily plays + On the Links o' Innerleven. + + Sae hie ye to the Golfer's ha', + And there, arranged alang the wa', + O' presses ye will see a raw, + At the Club o' Innerleven. + There from some friendly box ye'll draw + A club and second-handed ba',-- + A Gourlay pill's the best o' a' + For health at Innerleven. + + And though the Golfer's sport be keen, + Yet oft upon the putting-green + He'll rest to gaze upon the scene + That lies round Innerleven-- + To trace the steamboat's crumpled way + Through Largo's loch-like silvery bay, + Or to hear the hushing breakers play + On the beach o' Innerleven. + + When in the evening of my days, + I wish I could a cottage raise + Beneath the snugly-sheltering braes + O'erhanging Innerleven. + There in the plot before the door + I'd raise my vegetable store, + Or tug for supper at the oar + In the bay near Innerleven. + + But daily on thy matchless ground + I and my caddie would be found, + Describing still another round + On thy Links, sweet Innerleven! + Would I care then for fortune's rubs, + And a' their Kirk and State hubbubs, + While I could stump and swing my clubs + On the Links o' Innerleven? + + And when the e'ening grey sat doun, + I'd cast aside my tacket[11] shoon, + And crack o' putter, cleek, and spoon,[12] + Wi' a friend at Innerleven. + Syne o'er a glass o' Cameron Brig,[13] + A nightcap we would doucely swig, + Laughing at Conservative and Whig, + By the Links o' Innerleven. + +[Footnote 11: Golfers wear tacks in their shoes that they may stand firm +when they strike.] + +[Footnote 12: Names for different kinds of clubs.] + +[Footnote 13: The name of a noted distillery.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + IN PRAISE OF _GUTTA PERCHA_. + + (1856.) + + TUNE--_Dainty Davie._ + + + Of a' the changes that of late + Have shaken Europe's social state-- + Let wondering politicians prate, + And 'bout them mak a wark a'-- + A subject mair congenial here, + And dearer to a Golfer's ear + I sing--the change brought round last year + By balls of _Gutta Percha_! + + Tho' Gouf be of our games most rare, + Yet truth to speak, the tear and wear + O' balls was felt to be severe, + And source o' great vexation; + When Gourlay's balls cost half-a-croun, + And Allan's no a farthing doun, + The feck o's wad been harried soon, + In this era of taxation. + + But times are changed--we dinna care + Though we may ne'er drive leather mair, + Be't stuffed wi' feather or wi' hair-- + For noo we're independent. + At last a substance we hae got, + Frae which for scarce mair than a groat, + A ba' comes that can row and stot-- + A ba' the most transcendent. + + Hail, _Gutta Percha_, precious gum! + O'er Scotland's links lang may ye bum; + Some purse-proud billies haw and hum, + And say ye're douf at fleein'; + But let them try ye fairly out, + Wi' ony balls for days about, + Your merits they will loudly tout, + And own they hae been leein'. + + And noo that a' your praise is spent, + Ye'll listen to a friend's comment, + And kindlier tak on wi' paint, + Then ye wad be perfection. + And sure some scientific loon, + On Golfing will bestow a boon, + And gie ye a cosmetic soon, + And brighten your complexion. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + "FAR AND SURE!" + + BY THE LATE SHERIFF LOGAN. + + + "Far and sure! far and sure!" 'twas the cry of our fathers, + 'Twas a cry which their forefathers heard; + 'Tis the cry of their sons when the mustering gathers: + When we're gone may it still be the word. + + "Far and sure!" there is honour and hope in the sound; + Long over these Links may it roll! + It will--O it will! for each face around + Shows its magic is felt in each soul. + + Let it guide us in life; at the desk or the bar, + It will shield us from folly's gay lure; + Then, tho' rough be the course, and the winning post _far_, + We will carry the stakes--O be _sure_! + + Let it guide us in Golf, whether "Burgess" or "Star;" + At the last round let none look demure: + All Golfers are brothers when _driving_ is _far_, + When putting is canny and _sure_. + + "Far and sure! far and sure!" fill the bumper and drain it, + May our motto for ever endure; + May time never maim it, nor dishonour stain it; + Then drink, brothers, drink, "Far and sure!" + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + SONG. + + TUNE--_Scotland yet._ + + + Gae bring my guid auld clubs ance mair-- + Come, laddie, bring them fast, + For I maun hae anither game, + E'er the autumn season's past; + And trow ye as I play, my lads, + My song shall ever be, + "Auld Scotland's royal game o' Gouf-- + Our country's game for me." + Then here's a toast to Goufin' yet, + Wi' a' the honours three. + + Throw by that walloping surtout-- + On wi' my auld red jacket-- + Haul aff thae gripless Wellingtons + For yon shoon wi' mony a tacket. + Hang up that snoring Albert hat-- + Yon foraging-cap for me; + And now a Golfer I walk forth, + Frae worldly care set free. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + Now, laddie, pouch thae Gourlay ba's, + Wi' joy they'll dance a reel-- + My play-club capers in my hand, + As supple as an eel. + And see! my partner's on the green, + His ba' upon the tee-- + Impatient, round he swings his club, + Making heads o' gowans flee. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + How sweet's the air upon the links + That stretch along the sea! + Where, bending down white clover heads. + In silence sips the bee. + Our steps how light! as on we speed + O'er buoyant knowes o' balm, + To where our balls in distance lie, + Like mushrooms on the lawn. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + And 'tween each stroke how socially + Abreast in crack we go, + And shape o' club and mak o' ba' + Discuss wi' sportsman's glow. + Then hale-lung'd laughter peals aloud, + And banter stingless flies, + And tears o' mirth astonished run + From sad dyspeptics' eyes. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + And when some rounds demand a rest, + And appetite is keen, + How sweet to taste the Golfer's fare, + Reclining on the green! + Ne'er aldermen at turtle feast + Washed over with champagne, + Rejoiced like us, as baps we tear, + And jugs o' "Berwick's" drain. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + Our caddies at our feet reclined, + Their sheaves o' clubs at rest-- + Happy to hear the Golfers' lore, + Chew on wi' silent zest. + But up, like giants flushed with wine, + Again our clubs we wield-- + We feel new vigour in our arms, + And ardent take the field. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + Thus on we've toiled at Dubbieside, + But 'neath the Lomond hill + The sun has sunk, and the whirling din + Has ceased at Kirkland Mill. + The sand-eel crowd is thickening black + By the mouth o' Leven stream, + And the wearied _Tar_ in Largo Bay + Lets off the roaring _steam_. + So here's a toast, etc. + + So here's a health to our ain club, + St. Andrews next, our mither-- + A bumper to Dunbarnie next, + Our neibour and our brither: + Auld Dubbieside salutes ye a'; + And if you wish to meet her, + You'll find her ready at a ca', + Wi' her gallant captain PETER. + So here's a toast, etc. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + A GOLFING SONG. + + BY MR. JAMES BALLANTINE. + + TUNE--_Let Haughty Gaul._ + + + Come, leave your dingy desks and shops. + Ye sons of ancient Reekie, + And by green fields and sunny slopes, + For healthy pastime seek ye. + Don't bounce about your "_dogs of war_," + Nor at our _shinties_ scoff, boys, + But learn our motto, "_Sure and Far_," + Then come and play at Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds of Bruntsfield Links will chase + All murky vapours off, boys; + And nothing can your sinews brace + Like the glorious game of Golf, boys. + + Above our head the clear blue sky, + We bound the gowan'd sward o'er, + And as our balls fly far and high, + Our bosoms glow with ardour; + While dear Edina, Scotland's Queen, + Her misty cap lifts off, boys, + And smiles serenely on the green, + Graced by the game of Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + We putt, we drive, we laugh, we chat, + Our strokes and jokes aye clinking, + We banish all extraneous fat, + And all extraneous thinking. + We'll cure you of a summer cold, + Or of a winter cough, boys, + We'll make you young, even when you're old, + So come and play at Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + When in the dumps with mulligrubs, + Or doyte with barley-bree, boys, + Go get you of the green three rubs, + 'Twill set you on the "_Tee_," boys. + There's no disease we cannot cure, + No care we cannot doff, boys; + Our aim is ever "_Far and Sure_"-- + So come and play at Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + O blessings on pure cauler air, + And every healthy sport, boys, + That makes sweet Nature seem more fair, + And makes long life seem short, boys; + That warms your hearts with genial glow, + And makes you halve your loaf, boys, + With every needy child of woe-- + So bless the game of Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + Then don your brilliant scarlet coats, + With your bright blue velvet caps, boys. + And some shall play the _rocket shots_ + And some the _putting paps_, boys. + No son of Scotland, man or boy, + Shall e'er become an oaf, boys, + Who gathers friendship, health, and joy, + In playing at the Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + GOLFING SONG. + + TUNE--_Clean Pease Strae._ + + + When Tom and me were laddies, + Oor pastimes were but sma'-- + A game at common shinty, + Or playin' at the ba'; + But lang since then a game we ken, + Enticin' great and sma': + A king I ween aroun' Leith green + Has often gowff'd the ba'. + + Wi' glorious Gowff brave Scotia's game, + Oor youth comes back ance mair, + When, swift and free as birds on wing, + Oor balls fly through the air. + The rays o' fortune's golden star + Most earthly ills can cure; + Gowff helps to keep the others "_far_," + Or makes their absence "_sure_." + + When ice is keen the curlin' steen + Wi' birr gaes straught awa', + And cricket on the meadow green, + Seems manly, brisk, and braw; + But, laddie, tak a club in han', + Then tee and drive the ba'; + Ye'll find the royal game o' Gowff + Is better than them a'. + + Oor volunteers wi' guns and spears + Keep foreign foes in awe; + Noo Britain's youth shield north an' south, + Laigh cot and stately ha'; + Sae ne'er a foe shall Scotland fear + While Scotland's game we play, + Though we should leave the _puttin'_ green + To buckle for the fray. + + [Decoration] + + + _Printed by_ R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_. + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small caps are indicated by ALL +CAPS. + +[Decoration]s are predominantly intertwined animals in the Celtic style, +used to mark the beginning or end of a canto or poem. + +Dialect and archaic spelling abound in the original and are retained +here. Variations in hyphenation, punctuation, and use of accents appear +as in the original, except as noted below. + + Page vii: added comma (DRYSDALE,) + Page 10: _this_ to this (_Pygmalion_ this stout arm) + Page 10: spelling retained from original (Goliah's spear) + Page 37: hyphen removed before "and" (_Electro-Talbot_ and) + Page 69: "bouyant" to "buoyant" (O'er buoyant knowes) + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Poems on Golf, by Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON GOLF *** + +***** This file should be named 37323-8.txt or 37323-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/3/2/37323/ + +Produced by C.S. 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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 at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems on Golf + +Author: Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +Release Date: September 6, 2011 [EBook #37323] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON GOLF *** + + + + +Produced by C.S. Beers, Greg Bergquist and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/cover.png" width="423" height="600" alt="" /> <br /><br /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illo_002.png" width="194" height="315" alt="" /> <br /><br /><a + name="Illustration_POEMS_ON_GOLF" id="Illustration_POEMS_ON_GOLF"></a>POEMS + ON GOLF + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_004.png" width="378" height="600" + alt="Decorative block title page" /> + </div> + <h1> + POEMS <br /> <span class="smallercap">ON</span> <br /> GOLF <br /> + </h1> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illo_004logo.png" width="92" height="90" alt="" /> <br /> + </div> + <div class="marbigbot"> + <p class="ctrdent"> + EDINBURGH<br /> Printed for Private Circulation<br /> 1867 + </p> + </div> + <p class="ctrdent"> + <span class="smallercap">J. M. CORNER</span> + </p> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <span class="smcap">Some</span> Members of <span class="smcap">The + Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society</span> having resolved to collect and + print a few fugitive pieces in verse relating to the game of GOLF, the + following Poems and Songs have been after some labour procured, and are + now printed (some for the first time) for private circulation among the + Subscribers whose names are appended. + </p> + <p> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;"><span class="smcap">Edinburgh</span>, <i>April + 1867</i>.</span><br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <h2> + CONTENTS. + </h2> + <p class="ralign"> + <span class="smcap">Page</span><br /> + </p> + <p class="nodent"> + <a href="#The_Goff"><span class="smcap">The Goff</span>, an Heroi-comical + Poem</a> <span class="tocnum1">1</span> + </p> + <p class="nodent"> + <a href="#Address"><span class="smcap">Golfiana</span>—Address to + St. Andrews </a> <span class="tocnum2">20</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto2"> + " <span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"> <a href="#Golfiad">The Golfiad</a> + </span> <span class="tocnum2">22</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto2"> + " <span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"> <a href="#First_Hole"> The first Hole + at St. Andrews on a crowded day</a> </span> <span class="tocnum2">29</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto2"> + " <span style="margin-left: 2.5em;"> <a href="#Peep">Another Peep at the + Links</a> </span> <span class="tocnum2">36</span> + </p> + <p class="nodent"> + <a href="#Nine"><span class="smcap">The Nine Holes of St. Andrews + Links</span></a><span class="tocnum2">48</span> + </p> + <p class="nodent"> + <a href="#Scrap"><span class="smcap">Scrap</span>—"The following + scrap" &c.</a><span class="tocnum2">56</span> + </p> + <p class="nodent"> + <a href="#Garland"><span class="smcap">Song</span>—The Golfers' + Garland</a><span class="tocnum2">57</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto1"> + " <span style="margin-left: 1.7em;"> <a href="#Innerleven">The Links o' + Innerleven</a> </span> <span class="tocnum2">60</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto1"> + " <span style="margin-left: 1.7em;"> <a href="#Percha">In praise of Gutta + Percha</a> </span> <span class="tocnum2">63</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto1"> + " <span style="margin-left: 1.7em;"> <a href="#Far">"Far and Sure"</a> + </span> <span class="tocnum2">66</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto1"> + " <span style="margin-left: 1.7em;"> <a href="#Gae_bring">"Gae bring my + guid auld clubs"</a> </span> <span class="tocnum2">68</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto1"> + " <span style="margin-left: 1.7em;"> <a href="#dingy">"Come, leave your + dingy desks"</a> </span> <span class="tocnum2">73</span> + </p> + <p class="ditto1"> + " <span style="margin-left: 1.7em;"> <a href="#laddies">"When Tom and me + were laddies"</a> </span> <span class="tocnum2">77</span> + </p> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <h2> + <a name="LIST_OF_SUBSCRIBERS" id="LIST_OF_SUBSCRIBERS"></a>LIST OF + SUBSCRIBERS. + </h2> + <ul> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + BANNATYNE, ADAM B., Advocate. + </li> + <li> + BARCLAY, JAS., Writer. + </li> + <li> + BAYLEY, GEO., W.S. + </li> + <li> + BELL, W. H., A.C.S. + </li> + <li> + BEVERIDGE, WILL. T. R., A.C.S. + </li> + <li> + BRODIE, WM., R.S.A. + </li> + <li> + BROWN, W. A., Advocate. + </li> + <li> + BROWN, THOMAS, Writer. + </li> + <li> + BURN, GEORGE, W.S. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + CALDER, A., Insurance Manager. + </li> + <li> + CHISHOLM, JOHN K., Dentist. + </li> + <li> + CLARK, AND. R., Advocate. + </li> + <li> + CLARK, R., Printer. + </li> + <li> + CURROR, D., S.S.C. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + DRUMMOND, JAMES, R.S.A. + </li> + <li> + DRYSDALE, WILLIAM, D.C.S. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + FRASER, WM. N., of Tornaveen. + </li> + </ul> + <div> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span> + </div> + <ul> + <li> + GOUGH, OWEN, Holyrood Palace. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + HAY, JAMES, Esq., Leith. + </li> + <li> + HENDERSON, ANDREW, Writer. + </li> + <li> + HENDERSON, DAVID, Writer. + </li> + <li> + HUTCHISON, H., Writer. + </li> + <li> + HUTTON, WM., Writer. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + JACK, JNO., Writer. + </li> + <li> + JAMIESON, JAMES T., S.S.C. + </li> + <li> + JOHNSTON, ROB., Solicitor. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + KINNEAR, JAS., Writer. + </li> + <li> + KIRKWOOD, JAMES, Merchant. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + LANDALE, THO., S.S.C. + </li> + <li> + LEE, ROBERT, Advocate. + </li> + <li> + LEGGAT, JAMES, Coal Master. + </li> + <li> + LEISHMAN, JOHN, W.S. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + MACKENZIE, JOHN, W.S. + </li> + <li> + MACMILLAN, H., Writer. + </li> + <li> + M'EWEN, J., Writer. + </li> + <li> + MANN, W., Writer. + </li> + <li> + MELVILLE, F. SUTHER, A.C.S. + </li> + <li> + MILLAR, WM., Board of Supervision. + </li> + <li> + MITCHELL, A., Banker. + </li> + </ul> + <div> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span> + </div> + <ul> + <li style="padding-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em"> + MONCREIFF, JAMES, M.P., Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. + </li> + <li> + MONCRIEFF, A., Advocate. + </li> + <li> + MORRISON, AD., S.S.C. + </li> + <li> + MURRAY, ANDW., Jun., W.S. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + PATTISON, G. H., Advocate. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + REID, WILLIAM, Writer. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + SHAW, ROBERT B., Assistant Clerk of the Bills. + </li> + <li> + SMITH, DANIEL, Corn Factor. + </li> + <li> + STEVEN, ROBERT, Writer. + </li> + <li style="padding-left: 2em; text-indent: -2em"> + STEVENSON, PETER, Philosophical Instrument Maker. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + THOMS, GEO. H., Advocate. + </li> + <li> + THOMPSON, J. GIBSON. + </li> + <li> + THOMSON, JOHN, S.S.C. + </li> + <li> + THOMSON, W. M., Advocate. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + WADDELL, ALEX. PEDDIE, W.S. + </li> + <li> + WELCH, C., Writer, Cupar. + </li> + <li> + WILLIAMSON, JAMES, Traveller. + </li> + <li> + WILSON, GEO. B., Accountant. + </li> + <li> + + </li> + <li> + YOUNG, J. WM., 22 Royal Circus. + </li> + </ul> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="The_Goff" id="The_Goff"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_014.png" + width="295" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + <br />THE GOFF. + </h2> + <p class="blockquot"> + By <span class="smcap">Thomas Mathison</span>, originally a Writer in + Edinburgh, and afterwards Minister of Brechin. Reprinted from the second + edition of the Poem.—1763. + </p> + <h3> + <br />CANTO I. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p class="cap"> + GOFF, and the <i>Man</i>, I sing, who, em'lous, plies<br /> <span + class="i4">The jointed club, whose balls invade the skies,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Who from <i>Edina's</i> tow'rs, his peaceful home,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In quest of fame o'er <i>Letha's</i> plains did roam.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Long toil'd the hero, on the verdant field,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Strain'd his stout arm the weighty club to wield;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Such toils it cost, such labours to obtain<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The bays of conquest, and the bowl to gain.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">O thou <span class="smcap">Golfinia</span>, Goddess + of these plains!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Great Patroness of GOFF! + indulge my strains;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Whether beneath the + <i>thorn-tree</i> shade you lie,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Or from + <i>Mercerian</i> tow'rs the game survey,<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span><span + class="i2">Or round the green the flying ball you chase,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Or make your bed in some hot sandy <i>face:</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">Leave your much-lov'd abode, inspire his lays<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Who sings of <span class="smcap">Goff</span>, and + sings thy fav'rite's praise.<br /></span> <span class="i4">North from + <i>Edina</i> eight furlongs and more,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Lies + that fam'd field, on <i>Fortha's</i> sounding shore.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Here <i>Caledonian</i> Chiefs for health resort,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Confirm their sinews by the manly sport.<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Macdonald</i> and unmatch'd <i>Dalrymple</i> ply<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Their pond'rous weapons, and the green defy;<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Rattray</i> for skill, and <i>Corse</i> for + strength renown'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2"><i>Stewart</i> and <i>Lesly</i> + beat the sandy ground,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And <i>Brown</i> + and <i>Alston</i>, Chiefs well known to fame,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And numbers more the Muse forbears to name.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Gigantic <i>Biggar</i> here full oft is seen,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Like huge behemoth on an <i>Indian</i> green;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">His bulk enormous scarce can 'scape the eyes,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Amaz'd spectators wonder how he plies.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Yea, here great <i>Forbes</i>,<a name="FNanchor_1_1" + id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> + patron of the just,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The dread of villains + and the good man's trust,<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span><span class="i2">When spent + with toils in serving human kind,<br /></span> <span class="i2">His + body recreates, and unbends his mind.<br /></span> <span class="i4">Bright + <i>Phœbus</i> now had measur'd half the day,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And warm'd the earth with genial noon-tide ray;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Forth rush'd <i>Castalio</i> and his daring foe,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Both arm'd with clubs, and eager for the blow.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Of finest ash Castalio's shaft was made,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Pond'rous with lead, and fenc'd with horn the head<br /></span> + <span class="i2">(The work of <i>Dickson</i>, who in <i>Letha</i> + dwells,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And in the art of making clubs + excels),<br /></span> <span class="i2">Which late beneath great <i>Claro's</i> + arm did bend,<br /></span> <span class="i2">But now is wielded by his + greater friend.<br /></span> <span class="i4">Not with more fury <i>Norris</i> + cleav'd the main,<br /></span> <span class="i2">To pour his thund'ring + arms on guilty <i>Spain;</i><br /></span> <span class="i2">Nor with + more haste brave <i>Haddock</i> bent his course<br /></span> <span + class="i2">To guard <i>Minorca</i> from <i>Iberian</i> force,—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Than thou, intrepid hero, urg'd thy way<br /></span> + <span class="i2">O'er roads and sands, impatient for the fray.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">With equal warmth <i>Pygmalion</i> fast pursu'd<br /></span> + <span class="i2">(With courage oft are little wights endued),<br /></span> + <span class="i2">'Till to <span class="smcap">Golfinia's</span> downs + the heroes came,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The scene of combat and + the field of fame.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" + id="Page_4">[4]</a></span><span class="i4">Upon a verdant bank by <i>Flora</i> + grac'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Two sister Fairies found the + Goddess plac'd;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Propp'd by her snowy hand + her head reclin'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Her curling locks hung + waving in the wind.<br /></span> <span class="i2">She eyes intent the + consecrated green,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Crowded with waving + clubs and vot'ries keen,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And hears the + prayers of youths to her address'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + from the hollow face relieves the ball distress'd.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">On either side the sprightly Dryads sat,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And entertained the Goddess with their chat.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">First <span class="smcap">Verdurilla</span>, thus: O + rural Queen!<br /></span> <span class="i2">What chiefs are those that + drive along the green?<br /></span> <span class="i2">With brandish'd + clubs the mighty heroes threat,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Their + eager looks foretell a keen debate.<br /></span> <span class="i2">To + whom <span class="smcap">Golfinia</span>: Nymph, your eyes behold<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Pygmalion</i> stout, <i>Castalio</i> brave and + bold.<br /></span> <span class="i2">From silver <i>Ierna's</i> banks <i>Castalio</i> + came,<br /></span> <span class="i2">But first on <i>Andrean</i> plains + he courted fame.<br /></span> <span class="i2">His sire, a Druid, + taught (one day of seven)<br /></span> <span class="i2">The paths of + virtue, the sure road to heaven.<br /></span> <span class="i2">In <i>Pictish</i> + capital the good man passed<br /></span> <span class="i2">His virtuous + life, and there he breath'd his last.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span><span class="i2">The son now + dwells in fair <i>Edina's</i> town,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + on our sandy plains pursues renown.<br /></span> <span class="i2">See + low <i>Pygmalion</i>, skilled in GOFFING art,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Small is his size, but dauntless is his heart:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Fast by a desk in <i>Edin's</i> domes he sits,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With <i>saids</i> and <i>sicklikes</i> length'ning + out the writs.<br /></span> <span class="i2">For no mean prize the + rival chiefs contend,<br /></span> <span class="i2">But full rewards + the victor's toils attend.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The vanquish'd + hero for the victor fills<br /></span> <span class="i2">A mighty bowl + containing thirty gills;<br /></span> <span class="i2">With noblest + liquor is the bowl replete;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Here sweets + and acids, strength and weakness meet.<br /></span> <span class="i2">From + <i>Indian</i> isles the strength and sweetness flow,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And <i>Tagus'</i> banks their golden fruits bestow;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Cold <i>Caledonia's</i> lucid streams controul<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The fiery spirits, and fulfil the bowl;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">For <i>Albion's</i> peace and <i>Albion's</i> friends + they pray,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And drown in <i>Punch</i> the + labours of the day.<br /></span> <span class="i4">The Goddess spoke, + and thus <span class="smcap">Gambolia</span> pray'd:<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Permit to join in brave <i>Pygmalion's</i> aid,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">O'er each deep road the hero to sustain,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And guide his ball to the desired plain.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span><span + class="i4">To this the Goddess of the manly sport:<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Go, and be thou that daring chief's support.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Let <span class="smcap">Verdurilla</span> be <i>Castalio's</i> + stay;<br /></span> <span class="i2">I from this flow'ry seat will view + the fray.<br /></span> <span class="i2">She said: the nymphs trip + nimbly o'er the green,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And to the + combatants approach unseen.<br /></span> + </p> + </div> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><br /><span + class="label">[1]</span></a> Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court + of Session in Scotland. + </p> + </div> + <div class="marbigbot"> + <p class="center" style="font-size: 90%"> + END OF CANTO I. + </p> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illo_019.png" width="153" height="150" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 25%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illo_020.png" width="295" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h3> + CANTO II. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> rural powers that on + these plains preside,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Ye nymphs that dance + on Fortha's flow'ry side,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Assist the Muse + that in your fields delights,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And guide her + course in these uncommon flights.<br /></span> <span class="i2">But + chief, thee, O <span class="smcap">Golfinia</span>! I implore,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">High as thy balls instruct my Muse to soar:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">So may thy green for ever crowded be,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And balls on balls invade the azure sky.<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Now at that hole the chiefs begin the game,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Which from the neighb'ring <i>thorn-tree</i> takes its name;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Ardent they grasp the ball-compelling clubs,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And stretch their arms t' attack the little globes;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Not as our warriors brandish'd dreadful arms,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When fierce <i>Bellona</i> sounded war's alarms;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When conqu'ring <i>Cromwell</i> stain'd fair <i>Eska's</i> + flood,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And soak'd her banks with <i>Caledonian</i> + blood;<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span><span + class="i2">Or when our bold ancestors madly fought,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And clans engaged for trifles or for nought.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That <i>Fury</i> now from our bless'd fields is driv'n,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To scourge unhappy nations doom'd by heav'n.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Let <i>Kouli Kan</i> destroy the fertile East,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Victorious <i>Vernon</i> thunder in the West;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Let horrid war involve perfidious <i>Spain</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And <span class="smcap">George</span> assert his empire + o'er the main:<br /></span> <span class="i2">But on our plains <i>Britannia's</i> + sons engage,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And void of ire the sportive + war they wage.<br /></span> <span class="i4">Lo, tatter'd <i>Irus</i>, + who their armour bears,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Upon the green two + little pyr'mids rears;<br /></span> <span class="i2">On these they place + two balls with careful eye,<br /></span> <span class="i2">That with <i>Clarinda's</i> + breasts for colour vie,—<br /></span> <span class="i2">The work of + <i>Bobson</i>, who, with matchless art,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Shapes + the firm hide, connecting ev'ry part,—<br /></span> <span class="i2">Then + in a socket sets the well-stitched void,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + thro' the eyelet drives the downy tide;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Crowds + urging crowds the forceful brogue impels,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + feathers harden and the leather swells;<br /></span> <span class="i2">He + crams and sweats, yet crams and urges more,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Till + scarce the turgid globe contains its store;<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span><span + class="i2">The dreadful falcon's pride here blended lies<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With pigeons' glossy down of various dyes;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The lark's small pinions join the common stock,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And yellow glory of the martial cock.<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Soon as <i>Hyperion</i> gilds old <i>Andrea's</i> spires,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">From bed the artist to his cell retires,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With bended back, there plies his steely awls,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And shapes, and stuffs, and finishes the balls.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But when the glorious God of day has driv'n<br /></span> + <span class="i2">His flaming chariot down the steep of heav'n,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He ends his labour, and with rural strains<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Enchants the lovely maids and weary swains:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">As thro' the streets the blythsome piper plays,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In antic dance they answer to his lays;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">At ev'ry pause the ravish'd crowd acclaim,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And rends the skies with tuneful <i>Bobson's</i> name.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Not more rewarded was old <i>Amphion's</i> song,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That reared a town, and this drags one along.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Such is fam'd <i>Bobson</i>, who in <i>Andrea</i> + thrives,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And such the balls each vig'rous + hero drives.<br /></span> <span class="i4">First, bold <i>Castalio</i>, + ere he struck the blow,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Lean'd on his club, + and thus address'd his foe:<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span><span class="i2">Dares weak + <i>Pygmalion</i> this stout arm defy,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Which + brave <i>Matthias</i> doth with terror try?<br /></span> <span class="i2">Strong + as he is, <i>Moravio</i> owns my might,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Distrusts + his vigour, and declines the fight.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Renown'd + <i>Clephanio</i> I constrain'd to yield,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + drove the haughty vet'ran from the field.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Weak + is thine arm, rash youth! thy courage vain;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Vanquish'd, + with shame you'll curse the fatal plain.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + half-struck balls your weak endeavours mock,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Slowly + proceed, and soon forget the stroke.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Not so + the orb eludes my thund'ring force,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Thro' + fields of air it holds its rapid course;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Swift + as the balls from martial engines driv'n,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Streams + like a comet thro' the arch of heav'n.<br /></span> <span class="i4">Vaunter, + go on! (<i>Pygmalion</i> thus replies);<br /></span> <span class="i2">Thine + empty boasts with justice I despise!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Hadst + thou the strength Goliah's spear to wield,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Like + its great master thunder on the field,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + with that strength <i>Culloden's</i> matchless art,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Not one unmanly thought should daunt my heart.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He said: and sign'd to <i>Irus</i>, who before<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With frequent warnings fill'd the sounding shore.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span><span + class="i4">Then great <i>Castalio</i> his whole strength collects,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And on the orb a noble blow directs;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Swift as a thought the ball obedient flies,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Sings high in air, and seems to cleave the skies;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Then on the level plain its fury spends;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And <i>Irus</i> to the chief the welcome tidings sends.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Next in his turn <i>Pygmalion</i> strikes the globe;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">On the upper half descends the erring club;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Along the green the ball confounded scours;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">No lofty flight the ill-sped stroke impow'rs.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">Thus, when the trembling hare descries the hounds,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">She from her whinny mansion swiftly bounds;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">O'er hills and fields she scours, outstrips the wind;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The hounds and huntsmen follow far behind.<br /></span> + <span class="i4"><i>Gambolia</i> now afforded timely aid,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">She o'er the sand the fainting ball convey'd;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Renew'd its force, and urg'd it on its way,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Till on the summit of the hill it lay.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">Now all on fire the chiefs their orbs pursue,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With the next stroke the orbs their flight renew;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Thrice round the green they urge the whizzing ball,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And thrice three holes to great <i>Castalio</i> fall:<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span><span + class="i2">The other six <i>Pygmalion</i> bore away,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And saved a while the honours of the day.<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Had some brave champion of the sandy field<br /></span> <span + class="i2">The chiefs attended, and the game beheld,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">With ev'ry stroke his wonder had increas'd,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And em'lous fires had kindled in his breast.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="marbigbot"> + <p class="center" style="font-size: 90%"> + END OF CANTO II.<br /> + </p> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illo_025.png" width="170" height="150" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 25%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illo_026.png" width="292" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h3> + CANTO III. + </h3> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Harmonious</span> Nine, that from + <i>Parnassus</i> view<br /></span> <span class="i2">The subject world, + and all that's done below;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Who from + oblivion snatch the patriot's name,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And to + the stars extol the hero's fame;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Bring each + your lyre, and to my song repair,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Nor think + <i>Golfinia's</i> train below the Muses' care.<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Declining <i>Sol</i> with milder beams invades<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The <i>Scotian</i> fields, and lengthens out the + shades;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Hastes to survey the conquered + golden plains,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Where captive <i>Indians</i> + mourn in <i>Spanish</i> chains,<br /></span> <span class="i2">To gild the + waves where hapless <i>Hosier</i> dy'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Where + <i>Vernon</i> late proud <i>Bourbon's</i> force defied,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Triumphant rode along the wat'ry plain,<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Britannia's</i> glory and the scourge of <i>Spain</i>.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">Still from her seat the <i>Power</i> of GOFF beheld<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Th' unwearied heroes toiling on the field:<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span><span + class="i2">The light-foot fairies in their labours share,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Each nymph her hero seconds in the war;<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Pygmalion</span> and <i>Gambolia</i> + there appear,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And <span class="smcap">Verdurilla</span> + with <i>Castalio</i> here.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The Goddess saw, + and op'd the book of Fate,<br /></span> <span class="i2">To search the + issue of the grand debate.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Bright silver + plates the sacred leaves enfold,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Bound with + twelve shining clasps of solid gold.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + wond'rous book contains the fate of all<br /></span> <span class="i2">That + lift the club, and strike the missive ball;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Mysterious + rhymes, that thro' the pages flow,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + past, the present, and the future show.<br /></span> <span class="i2"><span + class="smcap">Golfinia</span> reads the fate-foretelling lines,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And soon the sequel of the war divines;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Sees conquest doom'd <i>Castalio's</i> toils to crown,<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Pygmalion</i> doom'd superior might to own.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Then at her side <span class="smcap">Victoria</span> + straight appears,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Her sister goddess, + arbitress of wars;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Upon her head a wreath + of bays she wore,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And in her hand a laurel + sceptre bore;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Anxious to know the will of + Fate, she stands,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And waits obsequious on + the Queen's commands.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" + id="Page_15">[15]</a></span><span class="i4">To whom <span class="smcap">Golfinia</span>: + Fate-fulfilling maid,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Hear the Fates' will, + and be their will obey'd:<br /></span> <span class="i2">Straight to the + field of fight thyself convey,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Where brave + <i>Castalio</i> and <i>Pygmalion</i> stray;<br /></span> <span class="i2">There + bid the long-protracted combat cease,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + with thy bays <i>Castalio's</i> temples grace.—<br /></span> <span + class="i2">She said; and swift, as <i>Hermes</i> from above<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Shoots to perform the high behests of <i>Jove</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Victoria</span> from her sister's + presence flies,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Pleased to bestow the + long-disputed prize.<br /></span> <span class="i4">Meanwhile the chiefs + for the last hole contend,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The last great + hole, which should their labours end;<br /></span> <span class="i2">For + this the chiefs exert their skill and might,<br /></span> <span class="i2">To + drive the balls, and to direct their flight.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Thus + two fleet coursers for the Royal plate<br /></span> <span class="i2">(The + others distanc'd) run the final heat;<br /></span> <span class="i2">With + all his might each gen'rous racer flies,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + all his art each panting rider tries,<br /></span> <span class="i2">While + show'rs of gold and praises warm his breast,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + gen'rous emulation fires the beast.<br /></span> <span class="i4">His + trusty club <i>Pygmalion</i> dauntless plies:<br /></span> <span + class="i2">The ball ambitious climbs the lofty skies;<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span><span + class="i2">But soon, ah! soon, descends upon the field,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The adverse winds the lab'ring orb repell'd.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Thus when a fowl, whom wand'ring sportsmen scare,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Leaves the sown land, and mounts the fields of air,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Short is his flight; the fiery <i>Furies</i> wound,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And bring him tumbling headlong to the ground.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">Not so <i>Castalio</i> lifts th' unerring club,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But with superior art attacks the globe;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The well-struck ball the stormy wind beguil'd,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And like a swallow skimm'd along the field.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">An harmless sheep, by Fate decreed to fall,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Feels the dire fury of the rapid ball;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Full on her front the raging bullet flew,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And sudden anguish seiz'd the silent ewe;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Stagg'ring, she falls upon the verdant plain,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Convulsive pangs distract her wounded brain.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Great <span class="smcap">Pan</span> beheld her + stretch'd upon the grass,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Nor unreveng'd + permits the crime to pass:<br /></span> <span class="i2">Th' <i>Arcadian</i> + God, with grief and fury stung,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Snatch'd + his stout crook, and fierce to vengeance sprung;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">His faithful dogs their master's steps pursue;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The fleecy flocks before their father bow,—<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span><span + class="i2">With bleatings hoarse salute him as he strode;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And frisking lambkins dance around the God.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The sire of sheep then lifted from the ground<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The panting dam, and piss'd upon the wound:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The stream divine soon eas'd the mother's pain;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The wise immortals never piss in vain.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Then to the ball his horny foot applies,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Before his foot the kick'd offender flies.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The hapless orb a gaping face detain'd;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Deep sunk in sand the hapless orb remain'd.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">As <span class="smcap">Verdurilla</span> mark'd the + ball's arrest,<br /></span> <span class="i2">She with resentment fired <i>Castalio's</i> + breast.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The nymph assum'd <i>Patrico's</i> + shape and mien,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Like great <i>Patrico</i> + stalk'd along the green;<br /></span> <span class="i2">So well his manner + and his accent feign'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2"><i>Castalio</i> + deemed <i>Patrico's</i> self complain'd.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Ah, + sad disgrace! see rustic herds invade<br /></span> <span class="i2"><span + class="smcap">Golfinian</span> plains, the angry fairy said:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Your ball abus'd, your hopes and projects cross'd,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The game endanger'd, and the hole nigh lost.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Thus brutal <span class="smcap">Pan</span> resents his + wounded ewe,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Tho' chance, not you, did + guide the fatal blow.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" + id="Page_18">[18]</a></span><span class="i4">Incens'd <i>Castalio</i> + makes her no replies,<br /></span> <span class="i2">T' attack the God, + the furious mortal flies;<br /></span> <span class="i2">His iron-headed + club around he swings,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And fierce at <span + class="smcap">Pan</span> the pond'rous weapon flings.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Affrighted <span class="smcap">Pan</span> the dreadful + missive shunn'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2">But blameless <i>Tray</i> + receiv'd a deadly wound:<br /></span> <span class="i2">Ill-fated <i>Tray</i> + no more the flocks shall tend,<br /></span> <span class="i2">In anguish + doom'd his shorten'd life to end.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Nor could + great <span class="smcap">Pan</span> afford a timely aid;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Great <span class="smcap">Pan</span> himself before the + hero fled:<br /></span> <span class="i2">Even he—a God—a + mortal's fury dreads,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And far and fast from + bold <i>Castalio</i> speeds.<br /></span> <span class="i4">To free the + ball the chief now turns his mind,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Flies to + the bank where lay the orb confined;<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + pond'rous club upon the ball descends,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Involv'd + in dust th' exulting orb ascends.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Their + loud applause the pleas'd spectators raise;<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + hollow bank resounds <i>Castalio's</i> praise.<br /></span> <span + class="i4">A mighty blow <i>Pygmalion</i> then lets fall,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Straight from th' impulsive engine starts the ball,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Answ'ring its master's just design, it hastes,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And from the hole scarce twice two clubs' length rests.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span><span + class="i4">Ah! what avails thy skill, since fate decrees<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Thy conqu'ring foe to bear away the prize?<br /></span> + <span class="i4">Full fifteen clubs' length from the hole he lay<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A wide cart-road before him cross'd his way;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The deep-cut tracks th' intrepid chief defies;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">High o'er the road the ball triumphing flies,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Lights on the green, and scours into the hole;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Down with it sinks depress'd <i>Pygmalion's</i> soul.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Seiz'd with surprise, th' affrighted hero stands,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And feebly tips the ball with trembling hands.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The creeping ball its want of force complains,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A grassy tuft the loit'ring orb detains.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Surrounding crowds the victor's praise proclaim,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The echoing shore resounds <i>Castalio's</i> name.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">For him <i>Pygmalion</i> must the bowl prepare,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To him must yield the honours of the war;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">On fame's triumphant wings his name shall soar<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Till time shall end, or GOFFING be no more.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_032.png" width="40" height="45" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Address" id="Address"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_033.png" + width="317" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + ADDRESS TO ST. ANDREWS. + </h2> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">St. Andrews</span>! they say + that thy glories are gone,<br /></span> <span class="i2">That thy streets + are deserted, thy castles o'erthrown:<br /></span> <span class="i2">If + thy glories <i>be</i> gone, they are only, methinks,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">As it were, by enchantment, transferr'd to thy Links.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of + prelates,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Of abbots and monks, and of + hot-headed zealots,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Let none judge us + rashly, or blame us as scoffers,<br /></span> <span class="i2">When we + say that instead there are Links full of Goffers,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">With more of good heart and good feeling among them<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Than the abbots, the monks, or the zealots who sung + them:<br /></span> <span class="i2">We have red coats and bonnets, we've + putters and clubs;<br /></span> <span class="i2">The green has its + bunkers, its hazards, and <i>rubs;</i><br /></span> <span class="i2">At + the long hole across we have biscuits and beer,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And the Hebes who sell it give zest to the cheer:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">If this make not up for the pomp and the splendour<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Of mitres, and murders, and mass—we'll surrender;<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span><span + class="i2">If Goffers and caddies be not better neighbours<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Let such fancies remain with the fool who so thinks,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">While we toast old St. Andrews, its Goffers and + Links.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_034.png" width="154" height="105" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Golfiad" id="Golfiad"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_035.png" + width="295" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GOLFIAD. + </h2> + <p class="center"> + <i>Arma, virumq. cano.</i><span class="smcap">—Virgil</span>, <i>Æn.</i> + i. l. 1. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Balls</span>, clubs, and men I + sing, who first, methinks,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Made sport and + bustle on North Berwick Links,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Brought coin + and fashion, betting, and renown,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Champagne + and claret, to a country town,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And lords + and ladies, knights and squires, to ground<br /></span> <span class="i2">Where + washerwomen erst and snobs were found!<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Had I the powers of him who sung of Troy—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Gem of the learned, bore of every boy—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Or him, the bard of Rome, who, later, told<br /></span> + <span class="i2">How great Æneas roam'd and fought of old—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">I then might shake the gazing world like them;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">For who denies I have as grand a theme?<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Time-honour'd Golf!—I heard it whisper'd once<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That he who could not play was held a dunce<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span><span + class="i2">On old Olympus, when it teem'd with gods.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">O rare!—but it's a lie—I'll bet the odds!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">No doubt these heathen gods, the very minute<br /></span> + <span class="i2">They knew the game, would have delighted in it!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Wars, storms, and thunders—all would have been + off!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Mars, Jove, and Neptune would have + studied Golf,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And swiped—like + Oliphant and Wood below—<br /></span> <span class="i2">Smack over + hell<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" + class="fnanchor">[2]</a> at one immortal go!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Had + Mecca's Prophet known the noble game<br /></span> <span class="i2">Before + he gave his paradise to fame,<br /></span> <span class="i2">He would have + promis'd, in the land of light,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Golf all + the day—and Houris all the night!<br /></span> <span class="i2">But + this is speculation: we must come,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And work + the subject rather nearer home;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Lest, in + attempting all too high to soar,<br /></span> <span class="i2">We fall, + like Icarus, to rise no more.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">The game is ancient—manly—and employs,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In its departments, women, men, and boys:<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span><span + class="i2">Men play the game, the boys the clubs convey,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And lovely woman gives the prize away,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When August brings the great, the medal day!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Nay, more: tho' some may doubt, and sneer, and scoff,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The female muse has sung the game of Goff,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And trac'd it down, with choicest skill and grace,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Thro' all its bearings, to the human race;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The tee, the start of youth—the game, our life—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The ball when fairly bunkered, man and wife.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Now, Muse, assist me while I strive to name<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The varied skill and chances of the game.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Suppose we play a match: if all agree,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Let Clan and Saddell tackle Baird and me.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Reader, attend! and learn to play at Goff;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The lord of Saddell and myself strike off!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He strikes—he's in the ditch—this hole is + ours;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Bang goes my ball—it's + bunker'd, by the pow'rs.<br /></span> <span class="i2">But better play + succeeds, these blunders past,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And in six + strokes the hole is halved at last.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">O hole! tho' small, and scarcely to be seen,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Till we are close upon thee, on the green;<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span><span + class="i2">And tho' when seen, save Golfers, few can prize,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The value, the delight that in thee lies;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Yet, without thee, our tools were useless all—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The club, the spoon, the putter, and the ball:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">For all is done—each ball arranged on tee,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Each stroke directed—but to enter thee!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">If—as each tree, and rock, and cave of old,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Had <i>its</i> presiding nymph, as we are told—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Thou hast <i>thy</i> nymph; I ask for nothing but<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Her aid propitious when I come to putt.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Now for the second: And here Baird and Clan<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In turn must prove which is the better man:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Sir David swipes sublime!—into the quarry!<a + name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" + class="fnanchor">[3]</a><br /></span> <span class="i2">Whiz goes the + chief—a sneezer,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a + href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> by Old Harry!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">"Now, lift the stones, but do not touch the ball,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The hole is lost if it but move at all:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Well play'd, my cock! you could not have done more;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">'Tis bad, but still we may get home at four."<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span><span + class="i2">Now, near the hole Sir David plays the odds;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">"A most disgusting <i>steal;</i><a name="FNanchor_5_5" + id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> + well, come away,<br /></span> <span class="i2">They're one ahead, but we + have four to play.<br /></span> <span class="i2">We'll win it yet, if I + can cross the ditch:<br /></span> <span class="i2">They're over, smack! + come, there's another <i>sich</i>."<a name="FNanchor_6_6" + id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a><br /></span> + <span class="i2">Baird plays a trump—we hole at three—they + stare,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And miss their putt—so now the + match is square.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">And here, who knows but, as old Homer sung,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The scales of fight on Jove's own finger hung?<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Here Clan and Saddell; there swing Baird and I,—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Our merits, that's to say; for half an eye<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Could tell, if <i>bodies</i> in the scales were laid,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Which must descend, and which must rise ahead.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">If Jove were thus engaged, we did not see him,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But told our boys to clean the balls and tee 'em.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In this next hole the turf is most uneven;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We play like tailors—only in at seven,<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span><span + class="i2">And they at six; most miserable play!<br /></span> <span + class="i2">But let them laugh who win. Hear Saddell say,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">"Now, by the piper who the pibroch played<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Before old Moses, we are one ahead,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And only two to play—a special <i>coup!</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">Three five-pound notes to one!" "Done, sir, with you."<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We start again; and in this dangerous hole<a + name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" + class="fnanchor">[7]</a><br /></span> <span class="i2">Full many a stroke + is played with heart and soul:<br /></span> <span class="i2">"Give me the + iron!" either party cries,<br /></span> <span class="i2">As in the + quarry, track, or sand he lies.<br /></span> <span class="i2">We reach + the green at last, at even strokes;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Some + caddy chatters, <i>that</i> the chief provokes,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And makes him miss his putt; Baird holes the ball;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Thus, with but one to play, 'tis even all!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">'Tis strange, and yet there cannot be a doubt,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That such a snob should put a chieftain out:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The noble lion, thus, in all his pride,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Stung by the gadfly, roars and starts aside;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Clan did <i>not</i> roar—<i>he</i> never makes a + noise—<br /></span> <span class="i2">But said, "They're very + troublesome, these boys."<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span><span class="i2">His partner + muttered something not so civil,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Particularly, + "scoundrels"—"at the devil!"<br /></span> <span class="i2">Now + Baird and Clan in turn strike off and play<a name="FNanchor_8_8" + id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a><br /></span> + <span class="i2">Two strokes, the best that have been seen to-day.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">His spoon next Saddell takes, and plays a trump—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Mine should have been as good but for a bump<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That turn'd it off. Baird plays the odds—it's all<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But in!—at five yards, good, Clan holes the ball!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">My partner, self, and song—all three are done!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We lose the match, and all the bets thereon!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Perhaps you think that, tho' I'm not a winner,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">My muse should stay and celebrate the dinner;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The ample joints that travel up the stair,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To grace the table spread by Mrs. Blair;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The wine, the ale, the toasts, the jokes, the songs,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And all that to such revelry belongs;—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It may not be! 'twere fearful falling off<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To sing such trifles after singing Golf<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In most majestic strain; let others dwell<br /></span> + <span class="i2">On such, and rack their carnal brains to tell<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A tale of sensuality!—Farewell!<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span + class="label">[2]</span></a> Hell is a range of broken ground on St. Andrews + Links, bearing probably the same proportion to the <i>ordinary</i> + course of the Links as hell would to heaven in the opinion of these + immortals. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span + class="label">[3]</span></a> A place on North Berwick Links, so awkward, + that in playing out of it one is allowed to remove everything, provided + the position of the ball is not altered. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span + class="label">[4]</span></a> A long and scientific stroke at golf. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span + class="label">[5]</span></a> <i>Steal</i>, the act of holing the ball + contrary to probability. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span + class="label">[6]</span></a> A slang term for <i>such</i>. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span + class="label">[7]</span></a> Fifth hole. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span + class="label">[8]</span></a> Sixth hole. + </p> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="First_Hole" id="First_Hole"> </a> <br /> <img + src="images/illo_042.png" width="280" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS ON A CROWDED DAY. + </h2> + <p class="center"> + <i>Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit.</i>—<span class="smcap">Æn.</span> + i. l. 208. + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">'<span class="smcap">Tis</span> morn! and man awakes, + by sleep refresh'd,<br /></span> <span class="i2">To do whate'er he has + to do with zest;<br /></span> <span class="i2">But at St. Andrews, + where my scene is laid,<br /></span> <span class="i2"><i>One</i> only + thought can enter every head;<br /></span> <span class="i2">The thought + of Golf, to wit—and that engages<br /></span> <span class="i2">Men + of all sizes, tempers, ranks, and ages;<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + root—the <i>primum mobile</i> of all,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + epidemic of the club and ball;<br /></span> <span class="i2">The work by + day, the source of dreams by night,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + never-failing fountain of delight!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Here, + Mr. Philp, club-maker, is as great<br /></span> <span class="i2"><i>As + Philip</i>—as any minister of state!<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + every caddy as profess'd a hero<br /></span> <span class="i2">As Captain + Cook, or Wellington, or Nero!<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span><span class="i2">For instance—Davie, + oldest of the cads,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Who gives <i>half-one</i> + to unsuspicious lads,<br /></span> <span class="i2">When he <i>might</i> + give them <i>two</i>, or even <i>more</i>,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + win, perhaps, three matches out of four,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Is + just as politic in <i>his</i> affairs<br /></span> <span class="i2">As + Talleyrand or Metternich in <i>theirs</i>.<br /></span> <span class="i2">He + has the statesman's elements, 'tis plain,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Cheat, + flatter, humbug—<i>anything</i> for gain;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And had he trod the world's wide field, methinks,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">As long as he has trod St. Andrews Links,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He might have been prime minister, or priest,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">My lord, or plain <i>Sir David</i> at the least!<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Now, to the ground of Golf my muse shall fly,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The various men assembled to descry,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Nine-tenths of whom, throughout the rolling year,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">At the first hole <i>unfailingly</i> appear;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Where, "How d'ye do?" "Fine morning," "Rainy day,"<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And, "What's the match?" are preludes to the play.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">So full the meeting that I scarcely can,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In such a crowd, distinguish man from man.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We'll take them as they come:—He next the wall,<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span><span + class="i2">Outside, upon the right, is Mr. Saddell;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And well he plays, though, rising on his toes,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Whiz round his head his <i>supple</i> club he throws.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">There, Doctor Moodie, turtle-like, displays<br /></span> + <span class="i2">His well-filled paunch, and swipes beyond all praise;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">While Cuttlehill, of slang and chatter chief,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Provokes the bile of Captain George Moncrieffe.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">See Colonel Playfair, shaped in form <i>rotund</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Parade, the unrivall'd Falstaff of the ground;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He laughs and jokes, plays, "what you like," and yet<br /></span> + <span class="i2">You'll rarely find him make a foolish bet.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Against the sky, display'd in high relief,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">I see the figure of Clanranald's Chief,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Dress'd most correctly in the <i>fancy</i> style,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Well-whisker'd face, and radiant with a smile;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He bows, shakes hands, and has a word for all—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">So did Beau Nash, as master of the ball!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Near him is Saddell, dress'd in blue coat plain,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With lots of Gourlays,<a name="FNanchor_9_9" + id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> + free from spot or stain;<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span><span class="i2">He whirls + his club to catch the proper <i>swing</i>,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + freely bets round all the scarlet ring;<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + swears by <i>Ammon</i>, he'll engage to drive<br /></span> <span + class="i2">As long a ball as any man alive!<br /></span> <span class="i2">That's + Major Playfair, a man of nerve unshaken—<br /></span> <span + class="i2">He knows a thing or two, or I'm mistaken;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And when he's press'd, can play a tearing game,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He works for <i>certainty</i> and not for <i>Fame!</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">There's none—I'll back the assertion with a wager—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Can play the <i>heavy iron</i> like the Major.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Next him is Craigie Halkett, one who can<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Swipe out, for distance, against any man;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But in what <i>course</i> the ball so struck may go,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">No looker on—not he himself—can know.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">See Major Holcroft, he's a steady hand<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Among the best of all the Golfing band;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He plays a winning game in every part,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But near the hole displays the greatest art.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">There young Patullo stands, and he, methinks,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Can drive the longest ball upon the Links;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And well he plays the spoon and iron, but<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He fails a <i>little</i> when he comes to <i>putt</i>.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span><span + class="i2">Near Captain Cheape, a sailor by profession<br /></span> <span + class="i2">(But not so good at Golf as navigation),<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Is Mr. Peter Glass, who once could play<br /></span> <span + class="i2">A better game than he can do to-day.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">We cannot last for ever! and the <i>gout</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Confirmed, is wondrous apt to put us out.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">There, to the left, I see Mount-Melville stand<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Erect, his <i>driving putter</i> in his hand;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It is a club he cannot leave behind,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">It works the balls so well against the wind.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Sir David Erskine has come into play,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">He has not won the medal <i>yet</i>, but <i>may</i>.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Dost love the greatest laugher of the lot?—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Then play a round with little Mr. Scott:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He is a merry cock, and seems to me<br /></span> <span + class="i2">To win or lose with equal ecstasy.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Here's Mr. Messieux, he's a noble player,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">But something <i>nervous</i>—that's a bad affair;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It sadly spoils his putting, when he's <i>press'd</i>—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But let him <i>win</i>, and he will beat the <i>best</i>.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That little man that's seated on the ground<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In red, must be Carnegie, I'll be bound!<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span><span + class="i2">A most conceited dog, not slow to <i>go it</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">At Golf, or anything—a <i>sort</i> of poet;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He talks to Wood—John Wood—who ranks among<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The tip-top hands that to the Club belong;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And Oliphant, the rival of the last,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Whose play, at times, can scarcely be surpass'd.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Who's he that's just arrived?—I know him well;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It is the Cupar Provost, John Dalzell:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When he <i>does</i> hit the ball, he swipes like blazes—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It is but <i>seldom</i>, and <i>himself</i> amazes;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But when he winds his horn, and leads the chase,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The Laird of Lingo's in his proper place.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It has been <i>said</i> that, at the <i>break of day</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">His Golf is better than his evening play:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That must be scandal; for I am sure that none<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Could think of Golf before the rise of sun.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He now is talking to his lady's brother,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A man of politics, Sir Ralph Anstruther:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Were he but once in Parliament, methinks,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And working <i>there</i> as well as on the <i>Links</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The burghs, I'll be bound, would not repent them<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That they had such a man to represent them:<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span><span + class="i2">There's <i>one thing</i> only—when he's <i>on the roll</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He must not lose his <i>nerve</i>, as when he's near + the hole.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Upon his right is Major Bob + Anstruther;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Cobbet's <i>one</i> radical—and + he's <i>another</i>.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">But when we meet, as here, to play at Golf,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Whig, Radical, and Tory—all are off—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Off the contested politics, I mean—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And fun and harmony illume the scene.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">We make our matches from the love of playing,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Without one loathsome feeling but the <i>paying</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And that is lessened by the thought, we <i>borrow</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">Only to-day what we shall <i>win</i> to-morrow.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Then, here's prosperity to Golf! and long<br /></span> + <span class="i2">May those who play be cheerful, fresh, and strong;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When <i>driving</i> ceases, may we still be able<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To play the <i>shorts</i>, <i>putt</i>, and be + comfortable!<br /></span> <span class="i2">And to the latest may we + fondly cherish<br /></span> <span class="i2">The thoughts of Golf—so + let St. Andrews flourish!<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span + class="label">[9]</span></a> Meaning plenty of balls, made by Mr. Gourlay + of Bruntsfield Links, a famous artist. The gentleman alluded to generally + has, at <i>least</i>, twelve dozen. + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Peep" id="Peep"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_049.png" + width="295" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. + </h2> + <p class="headquot"> + <i>Alter erit tum Typhys, et altera quæ vehat Argo<br /> Dilectos heroas—erunt + etiam altera bella.</i> + </p> + <p class="headquotsig"> + <span class="smcap">Virg. Georgic.</span><br /> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Awake</span>, my slumb'ring Muse, + and plume thy wing,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Our former theme—the + Game of Golf—to sing!<br /></span> <span class="i2">For since the + subject last inspired my pen,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Ten years + have glided by, or nearly ten.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Still the + old hands at Golf delight to play—<br /></span> <span class="i2">Still + new succeed them as they pass away;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Still + ginger-beer and parliament are seen<br /></span> <span class="i2">Serv'd + out by Houris to the peopled green;<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + still the royal game maintains its place,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + will maintain it through each rising race.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Still Major Playfair shines, a star at Golf;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And still the Colonel—though a <i>little</i> off;<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span><span + class="i2">The former, skill'd in many a curious art,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">As chemist, mechanist, can play his part,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And understands, besides the pow'r of swiping,<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Electro-Talbot</i> and Daguerreotyping.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Still Colonel Holcroft steady walks the grass,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And still his putting nothing can surpass—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And still he drives, unless the weather's rough,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Not quite so far as <i>once</i>, but far enough.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Still Saddell walks, superb, improved in play,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Though his blue jacket now is turn'd to grey;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Still are his balls as rife and clean as wont—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Still swears by Ammon, and still bets the <i>blunt</i>—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Still plays all matches—still is often beat—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And still in iced punch drowns each fresh defeat.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Still on the green Clanranald's chief appears,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">As gay as ever, as untouch'd by years;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He laughs at Time, and Time, perhaps through whim,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Respects his nonchalance, and laughs at him;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Just fans him with his wings, but spares his head,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">As loth to lose a subject so well bred.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Sir Ralph returns—he has been absent long—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">No less renown'd in Golfing than in song;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With continental learning richly stored,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Teutonic Bards translated and explored;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A <i>literaire</i>—a German scholar now,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With all <i>Griselda's</i> honours on his brow!<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">The Links have still the pleasure to behold<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Messieux, complete in matches, as of old;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He, modest, tells you that his day's gone by:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">If any think it <i>is so</i>—let them try!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Still portly William Wood is to be seen,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">As good as ever on the velvet green,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">The same unfailing trump; but John, methinks,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Has taken to the <i>Turf</i>, and shies the Links.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Whether the <i>Leger</i> and the <i>Derby</i> pay<br /></span> + <span class="i2">As well as <i>Hope Grant</i>, I can scarcely say;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But let that be—'tis better, John, old fellow,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To pluck the <i>rooks</i>, than <i>rook</i> the <i>violoncello</i>.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Permit me just a moment to digress—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Friendship would chide me should I venture less—<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span><span + class="i2">The poor Chinese, there cannot be a doubt,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Will shortly be demolish'd out and out;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">But—O how blest beyond the common line<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Of conquer'd nations by the Power divine!—<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Saltoun</i> to cut their yellow throats, and then<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Hope Grant</i> to play their requiem-notes—Amen!<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Still George Moncrieffe appears the crowd before,<br /></span> + <span class="i2"><i>Lieutenant-Colonel</i>—Captain now no more;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Improv'd in ev'rything—in looks and life,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And, more than all, the husband of a wife!<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">As in the olden time, see Craigie Halkett—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Wild strokes and swiping, jest, and fun, and rackett;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He leaves us now. But in three years, I trust,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He will return, and sport his <i>muzzle dust</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Play Golf again, and patronise all cheer,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">From noble <i>Claret</i> down to <i>bitter beer</i>.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Mount-Melville still erect as ever stands,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And plies his club with energetic hands,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Plays short and steady, often is a winner—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A better Captain never graced a dinner.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">But where is <i>Oliphant</i>, that artist grand?<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He scarce appears among the Golfing band.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">No doubt he's married; but when that befalls<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Is there an end to putters, clubs, and balls?<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Not so, methinks: <i>Sir David Baird</i> can play<br /></span> + <span class="i2">With any Golfer of the present day;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">The <i>Laird of Lingo</i>, Major Bob Anstruther—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Both married, and the one as good's the other.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Dalgleish and Haig, two better men to play<br /></span> + <span class="i2">You scarce will meet upon a summer's day;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Alike correct, whatever may befall,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Swipe, iron, putter, quarter-stroke, and all.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Old Robert Lindsay plays a decent game,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Tho' not a Golfer of <i>enormous</i> fame.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Well can he fish with minnow as with fly,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Paint, and play <i>farthing-brag</i> uncommonly;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Give jolly dinners, justice courts attend—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A good companion and a steady friend.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">But <i>Cuttlehill</i>, that wonderful <i>buffoon</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We meet him now no more, as wont, at noon;<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span><span + class="i2">No more along the green his jokes are heard,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And some who <i>dared</i> not <i>then</i>, now take the + word.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Farewell! facetious Jem—too + surely gone—<br /></span> <span class="i2">A loss to us—<i>Joe + Miller</i> to <i>Boulogne</i>.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Poor Peter Glass, a worthy soul and <i>blue</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Has paid the debt of nature—'tis too true!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Long did his candle flicker with the gout—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">One puff, a little stronger, <i>blew it out</i>.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And good Patullo! he who drove as none,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Since him, have driven—he is also gone!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And Captain Cheape—who does not mourn the day<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That snatch'd so good, so kind a friend away?<br /></span> + <span class="i2">One more I name—and only one—but he<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Was older far, and lower in degree—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Great Davie Robertson, the eldest cad,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In whom the good was stronger than the bad;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He sleeps in death! and with him sleeps a skill<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Which Davie, statesmanlike, could wield at will!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Sound be his slumbers! yet if he should wake<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In worlds where Golf is play'd, himself he'd shake,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And look about, and tell each young beginner,<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span><span + class="i2">"I'll gie half-ane—nae mair, as I'm a sinner."<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He leaves a son, and Allan is his name,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In Golfing far beyond his father's fame;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Tho' in diplomacy, I shrewdly guess,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">His skill's inferior, and his fame is less.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Now for the <i>mushrooms</i>—old, perchance, or + new—<br /></span> <span class="i2">But whom my former strain did + not review:<br /></span> <span class="i2">I'll name an <i>old one</i>, + Patton, Tom, of Perth,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Short, stout, + grey-headed, but of sterling worth!<br /></span> <span class="i2">A + Golfer perfect—something, it may be,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + worse for <i>wear</i>, but few so true as he;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Good-humour'd when behind as when ahead,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And drinks like blazes till he goes to bed.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">His friend is Peddie, not an awful swiper,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">But at the putting he's a very <i>viper:</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">Give him a man to drive him through the green,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And he'll be bad to beat, it will be seen—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Patton and Peddie—Peddie and Patton,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Are just the people one should bet upon.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">There Keith with Andrew Wauchope works away,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And most respectable the game they play;<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span><span + class="i2">The navy Captain's steadiness and age<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Give him, perhaps, the <i>pull</i>—but I'll engage,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Ere some few months, or rather weeks, are fled,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Youth and activity will take the lead.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">See Gilmour next—and he can drive a ball<br /></span> + <span class="i2">As far as any man among them all;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">In ev'ry hunting-field can lead the van,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And is throughout a perfect gentleman.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Next comes a handsome man, with Roman nose<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And whiskers dark—Wolfe Murray I suppose;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He has begun but lately, still he plays<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A fairish game, and therefore merits praise;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Ask him when at his <i>worst</i>, and he will say,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">"'Tis bad—but, Lord! how I play'd <i>yesterday!</i>"<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Another man with whiskers—stout and strong—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A Golfer too who swipes his balls along,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And well he putts, but I should simply say,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">His <i>own opinion's</i> better than his play;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Dundas can sing a song, or glee, or catch,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">I think far better than he makes a match.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">But who is he whose hairy lips betray<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Hussar or Lancer? Muse, oh kindly say!<br /></span> <span + class="i2">'Tis Captain Feilden. Lord, how hard he hits!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">'Tis strange he does not knock the ball to bits!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Sometimes he hits it fair, and makes a stroke<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Whose distance Saddell's envy might provoke;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But take his <i>common</i> play; the worst that ever<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Play'd Golf might give him <i>one</i>, and beat him + clever.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Bad tho' he be, the Captain has + done more<br /></span> <span class="i2">Than ever man who play'd at Golf + before:<br /></span> <span class="i2"><i>One</i> thund'ring ball he drove—'twas + in despair—<br /></span> <span class="i2">Wide of the hole, indeed, + but kill'd a <i>hare!</i><br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Ah! Captain Campbell, old Schehallion, see!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Most have play'd longer, few so well as he;—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A sterling Highlander, and that's no trifle,—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">So thinks the <i>Gael</i>—a workman with a rifle;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Keeps open house—a very proper thing—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And, tho' rheumatic, <i>fiddles</i> like a king!<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Sir Thomas of Moncrieffe—I cannot doubt<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But he will be a Golfer out-and-out;<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span><span + class="i2">Tho' now, perhaps, he's off, and careless too—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">His misses numerous, his hits are few;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But he is zealous; and the time will be<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When few will better play the game than he.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Balbirnie and Makgill will both be good—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Strong, active, lathy fellows; so they should.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">But for John Grant, a clever fellow too,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">I really fear that Golf will never do.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">'Tis strange, indeed; for he can paint, and ride,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And hunt the hounds, and many a thing beside;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Amuse his friends with anecdote and fun;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But when he takes his club in hand—he's <i>done!</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">Stay! I retract!—Since writing the above,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">I've seen him play a better game, by Jove;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">So much beyond what one could have believ'd,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That I confess myself for once deceived;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And if he can go on the season through,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">There's still a <i>chance</i> that he may really <i>do</i>.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">I've kept a man, in <i>petto</i>, for the last—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Not an old Golfer, but by few surpassed—<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span><span + class="i2">Great Captain Fairlie! When he drives a ball—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">One of his <i>best</i>—for he don't hit them all,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It then requires no common stretch of sight<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To watch its progress, and to see it light.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">One moment: I've another to define—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A famous sportsman, and a judge of wine—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Whom faithful Mem'ry offers to my view;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">He made the game a study, it is true;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Still, many play as well but, for <i>position</i><br /></span> + <span class="i2">John Buckle fairly beggars competition!<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">And now farewell! I am the worse for wear—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Grey is my jacket, growing grey my hair!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And though my play is pretty much the same,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Mine is, at best, a despicable game.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">But still I like it—still delight to sing<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Clubs, players, caddies, balls, and everything.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But all that's bright must fade, and we who play,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Like those before us, soon must pass away;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Yet it requires no prophet's skill to trace<br /></span> + <span class="i2">The royal game thro' each succeeding race:<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span><span + class="i2">While on the tide of generations flows,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">It still shall bloom, a never-fading rose;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And still St. Andrews Links, with flags unfurl'd,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Shall peerless reign, and challenge all the world!<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_060.png" width="147" height="135" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Nine" id="Nine"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_061.png" + width="295" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NINE HOLES OF THE LINKS OF ST. ANDREWS. + </h2> + <h5> + IN A SERIES OF SONNETS. + </h5> + <h4> + <br />I. THE FIRST OR BRIDGE HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Sacred</span> to hope and promise + is the spot—<br /></span> <span class="i6">To Philp's and to the + Union Parlour near,<br /></span> <span class="i6">To every Golfer, every + caddie dear—<br /></span> <span class="i2">Where we strike off—oh, + ne'er to be forgot,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Although in lands most + distant we sojourn.<br /></span> <span class="i6">But not without its + perils is the place;<br /></span> <span class="i6">Mark the opposing + caddie's sly grimace,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Whispering: "He's on + the road!" "He's in the burn!"<br /></span> <span class="i2">So is it + often in the grander game<br /></span> <span class="i6">Of life, when, + eager, hoping for the palm,<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span><span class="i2">Breathing of + honour, joy, and love and fame,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Conscious + of nothing like a doubt or qualm,<br /></span> <span class="i2">We start, + and cry: "Salute us, muse of fire!"<br /></span> <span class="i6">And the + first footstep lands us in the mire.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">R. C.</span> + </p> + <h4> + II. THE SECOND OR CARTGATE HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Fearful</span> to Tyro is thy + primal stroke,<br /></span> <span class="i6">O Cartgate! for behold the + bunker opes<br /></span> <span class="i6">Right to the <i>teeing</i>-place + its yawning chops,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Hope to engulf ere it is + well awoke.<br /></span> <span class="i2">That passed, a Scylla in the + form of rushes<br /></span> <span class="i6">Nods to Charybdis which in + ruts appears:<br /></span> <span class="i6">He will be safe who in the + middle steers;<br /></span> <span class="i2">One step aside, the ball + destruction brushes.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Golf symbols thus + again our painful life,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Dangers in front, + and pitfalls on each hand:<br /></span> <span class="i6">But see, one + glorious cleek-stroke from the sand<br /></span> <span class="i2">Sends + Tyro home, and saves all further strife!<br /></span> <span class="i2">He's + in at six—old Sandy views the lad<br /></span> <span class="i2">With + new respect, remarking: "That's no bad!"<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">R. C.</span><br /> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span><br /> + </p> + <h4> + III. THE THIRD HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">No</span> rest in Golf—still + perils in the path:<br /></span> <span class="i6">Here, playing a good + ball, perhaps it goes<br /></span> <span class="i6">Gently into the <i>Principalian + Nose</i>,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Or else <i>Tam's Coo</i>, which + equally is death.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Perhaps the wind will + catch it in mid-air,<br /></span> <span class="i6">And take it to <i>the + Whins</i>—"Look out, look out!<br /></span> <span class="i6">Tom + Morris, be, oh be, a faithful scout!"<br /></span> <span class="i2">But + Tom, though <i>links-eyed</i>, finds not anywhere.<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Such thy mishaps, O Merit: feeble balls<br /></span> <span + class="i6">Meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">'Tis well, my friends, if you, when this befalls,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It only shows the ancient proverb's force,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That you may further go and fare the worse.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">R. C.</span> + </p> + <h4> + IV. THE FOURTH OR GINGER-BEER HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Though</span> thou hast lost this + last unlucky hole,<br /></span> <span class="i6">I say again, betake thee + not to swearing,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Or any form of speech + profanely daring,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Though some allege it + tendeth to console.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" + id="Page_51">[51]</a></span><span class="i2">Better do thou thy swelling + griefs control,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Sagacious that at hand a + joy awaits thee<br /></span> <span class="i6">(Since out of doubt a glass + of beer elates thee),<br /></span> <span class="i2">Without that + frightful peril to thy soul.<br /></span> <span class="i2">A glass of + beer! go dip thine angry beak in it,<br /></span> <span class="i6">And + straight its rage will melt to soft placidity,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">That solace finding thou art wise to seek in it;<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Ah, do not thou on this poor plea reject it,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">That in thy inwards it will breed acidity—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">One glass of Stewart's brandy will correct it.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">P. A.</span> + </p> + <h4> + V. THE HELL HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">What</span> daring genius first + yclept thee Hell?<br /></span> <span class="i6">What high, poetic, + awe-struck grand old Golfer,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Much more of a + mythologist than scoffer!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Whoe'er he was, + the name befits thee well.<br /></span> <span class="i2">"All hope + abandon, ye who enter here,"<br /></span> <span class="i6">Is written + awful o'er thy gloomy jaws,<br /></span> <span class="i6">A threat to all + save Allan might give pause:<br /></span> <span class="i2">And frequent + from within come tones of fear—<br /></span> <span class="i2">Dread + sound of cleeks, which ever fall in vain,<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span><span + class="i2">And—for mere mortal patience is but scanty—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Dire gnashings of the teeth, and horrid curses,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">With which I need not decorate my verses,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Because, in fact, you'll find them all in Dante.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">P. A.</span> + </p> + <h4> + VI. THE HEATHER HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Ah</span> me! prodigious woes do + still environ—<br /></span> <span class="i6">To quote verbatim from + some grave old poet—<br /></span> <span class="i2">The man who + needs must meddle with his <i>iron;</i><br /></span> <span class="i6">And + here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it.<br /></span> <span class="i2">For + now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Tilling + some bunker, as if on a lease of it,<br /></span> <span class="i6">And so + assiduous to make due increase of it;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Or + wandering homeless through a world of whins!<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + when, these perils past, thou seemest <i>dead</i>.<br /></span> <span + class="i6">And hop'st a half—O woe, the ball goes crooked,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Making thy foe just one more hole ahead,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Surely a consummation all too sad,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Without that sneering devilish "Never lookit,"<br /></span> + <span class="i6">The parting comment of the opposing cad.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">P. A.</span><br /> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> + </p> + <h4> + VII. THE HIGH OR EDEN HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">The</span> shelly pit is cleared at + one fell blow,<br /></span> <span class="i6">A stroke to be remembered in + your dreams!<br /></span> <span class="i6">But here the Eden on your + vision gleams,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Lovely, but treach'rous in + its solemn flow.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The hole is perched aloft, + too near the tide,<br /></span> <span class="i6">The green is small, and + broken is the ground<br /></span> <span class="i6">Which doth that little + charmed space surround!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Go not too far, and + go not to a side;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Take the short spoon to + do your second stroke;<br /></span> <span class="i6">Sandy entreats you + will the wind take heed on,<br /></span> <span class="i2">For, oh, it + would a very saint provoke,<br /></span> <span class="i6">If you should + let your ball plump in the Eden.<br /></span> <span class="i2">You do + your best, but who can fate control?<br /></span> <span class="i2">So + here against you is another hole.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">R. C. Jr.</span> + </p> + <h4> + VIII. THE SHORT HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Brief</span> but not easy is the + next adventure;<br /></span> <span class="i6">Legend avers it has been + done in <i>one</i>,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Though such long <i>steals</i> + are now but rarely done—<br /></span> <span class="i2">In <i>three</i> + 'twere well that you the hole should enter.<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span><span + class="i2">Strangely original is this bit of ground,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">For, while at hand the smooth and smiling green,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">One bunker wide and bushy yawns between,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Where Tyro's gutta is too often found.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Nervous your rival strikes and heels his ball—<br /></span> + <span class="i6">From that whin-bush at six he'll scarce extract it:<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Yours, by no blunder this time counteracted,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Is with the grass-club lofted over all.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">There goes a hole in your side—how you hug it!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Much as th' Australian digger does a nugget.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">R. C. Jr.</span> + </p> + <h4> + IX. THE END HOLE. + </h4> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">The</span> end, but not the end—the + distance-post<br /></span> <span class="i6">That halves the game—a + serious point to thee,<br /></span> <span class="i6">For if one more thou + losest, 'twill be <i>three:</i><br /></span> <span class="i2">Yet even in + that case, think not all is lost.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Men four + behind have been, on the return,<br /></span> <span class="i6">So + favoured by Olympus, or by care,<br /></span> <span class="i6">That all + their terrors vanished into air,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + caddies cried them <i>dormy</i> at the burn!<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span><span + class="i2">I could quote proverbs, did I speak at random:<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Full many a broken ship comes into port,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Full many a cause is gained at last resort,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But Golf impresses most, <i>Nil desperandum</i>.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Turn, then, my son, with two against, nor dread<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To gain the winning-post with one ahead.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <p class="marbigbot"> + <span style="margin-left: 86%;">R. C. Jr.</span> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_068.png" width="151" height="165" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Scrap" id="Scrap"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_069.png" + width="295" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + Scrap + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + <!-- a name="Scrap" + id="The_following_Scrap_relative_to_Golf_occurs_in_a_very_rare_work_entitled"></a --> + The following <span class="smcap">Scrap</span> relative to <span + class="smcap">Golf</span> occurs in a very rare work entitled <i>Westminster + Drollery</i>, 12mo, 1671, p. 28. + </p> + <p> + <span style="margin-left: 2em;">A Song called—</span><br /> <br /> + <span style="margin-left: 6.5em;">"And to each pretty lass</span><br /> + <span style="margin-left: 7em;">We will give a green gown."</span><br /> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Thus</span> all our life long we + are frolick and gay,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And instead of Court + revels we merrily play<br /></span> <span class="i2">At Trap, at Rules, + and at Barly-break run,<br /></span> <span class="i2">At <span + class="smcap">Goff</span> and at Foot-Ball; and when we have done<br /></span> + <span class="i2">These innocent sports, we'll laugh and lie down,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">And to each pretty lass<br /></span> <span class="i6">We + will give a green gown.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <blockquote> + <p> + <i>N.B.</i>—The above was copied from a book containing many + curious Scraps relating to Golfing, Archery, and Curling, belonging to + <span class="smcap">James Maidment</span>, Esq., advocate. + </p> + </blockquote> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Garland" id="Garland"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_070.png" + width="315" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GOLFER'S GARLAND.<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a + href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor"> <span + style="font-size: .7em; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: super; ">[10]</span></a> + </h2> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Of</span> rural diversions, too + long has the chase<br /></span> <span class="i2">All the honours usurped, + and assumed the chief place;<br /></span> <span class="i2">But truth bids + the muse from henceforward proclaim,<br /></span> <span class="i2">That + Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame.<br /></span> <span + class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">From vig'rous exertions our pleasures arise,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies.<br /></span> + <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">O'er the green see our heroes in uniform clad,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">In parties well matched how they gracefully spread,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend + to the goal,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And with putt well directed + plump into the hole.<br /></span> <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, + etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">From exercise keen, from strength active and bold,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We traverse the green, and forget to grow old;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Are knock'd down by our balls as they whiz through the + air.<br /></span> <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">The strong-sinew'd son of Alcmena would drub,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And demolish a monster when armed with a club;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">But what were the monsters which Hercules slew,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To those fiends which each week with our balls we + subdue?<br /></span> <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A sport so distinguished the fair must approve;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">So to Golf give the day and the evening to love.<br /></span> + <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Our first standing toast we to Golfing assign,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">No other amusement so truly divine;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">It has charms for the aged, as well as the young,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Then as first of field sports let its praises be sung.<br /></span> + <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">And to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Our charming instructresses—blessings attend + them,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And cursed be the clown who would + dare to offend them!<br /></span> <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, + etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">The next we shall drink to our friends far and near;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">To the mem'ry of those who no longer appear,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Who have play'd their last round, and passed over that + bourne<br /></span> <span class="i2">From which the best Golfer can never + return.<br /></span> <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Then fill up your glass, and let each social soul<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Drink to the putter, the balls, and the hole;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And may every true Golfer invariably find<br /></span> + <span class="i2">His opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind.<br /></span> + <span class="i10">With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a + href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> From + Mathieson's Poem "The Goff" 1743, with the exception of the 5th verse, + which was copied by a member of the Burgess Club from a version of the + song found on an old bookstall. + </p> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Innerleven" id="Innerleven"> </a> <br /> <img + src="images/illo_073.png" width="292" height="75" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LINKS O' INNERLEVEN. + </h2> + <p class="center"> + <span class="smcap">Sung at the Autumn Meeting of the Innerleven Golfing + Club, 1841.</span> + </p> + <p class="center"> + <span class="smcap">Tune</span>—<i>Dainty Davie.</i> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Wha</span> wad be free from + doctor's bills—<br /></span> <span class="i2">From trash o' powders + and o' pills—<br /></span> <span class="i2">Will find a cure for a' + his ills<br /></span> <span class="i4">On the Links o' Innerleven.<br /></span> + <span class="i2">For there whar lassies bleach their claes,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And bairnies toddle doun the braes,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">The merry Golfer daily plays<br /></span> <span class="i4">On + the Links o' Innerleven.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Sae hie ye to the Golfer's ha',<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And there, arranged alang the wa',<br /></span> <span + class="i2">O' presses ye will see a raw,<br /></span> <span class="i4">At + the Club o' Innerleven.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span><span class="i2">There from + some friendly box ye'll draw<br /></span> <span class="i2">A club and + second-handed ba',—<br /></span> <span class="i2">A Gourlay pill's + the best o' a'<br /></span> <span class="i4">For health at Innerleven.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">And though the Golfer's sport be keen,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Yet oft upon the putting-green<br /></span> <span + class="i2">He'll rest to gaze upon the scene<br /></span> <span class="i4">That + lies round Innerleven—<br /></span> <span class="i2">To trace the + steamboat's crumpled way<br /></span> <span class="i2">Through Largo's + loch-like silvery bay,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Or to hear the + hushing breakers play<br /></span> <span class="i4">On the beach o' + Innerleven.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">When in the evening of my days,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">I wish I could a cottage raise<br /></span> <span class="i2">Beneath + the snugly-sheltering braes<br /></span> <span class="i4">O'erhanging + Innerleven.<br /></span> <span class="i2">There in the plot before the + door<br /></span> <span class="i2">I'd raise my vegetable store,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Or tug for supper at the oar<br /></span> <span + class="i4">In the bay near Innerleven.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">But daily on thy matchless ground<br /></span> <span + class="i2">I and my caddie would be found,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Describing + still another round<br /></span> <span class="i4">On thy Links, sweet + Innerleven!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Would I care then for fortune's + rubs,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And a' their Kirk and State hubbubs,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">While I could stump and swing my clubs<br /></span> + <span class="i4">On the Links o' Innerleven?<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">And when the e'ening grey sat doun,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">I'd cast aside my tacket<a name="FNanchor_11_11" + id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> + shoon,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And crack o' putter, cleek, and + spoon,<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a + href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a><br /></span> <span + class="i4">Wi' a friend at Innerleven.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Syne + o'er a glass o' Cameron Brig,<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a + href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a><br /></span> <span + class="i2">A nightcap we would doucely swig,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Laughing + at Conservative and Whig,<br /></span> <span class="i4">By the Links o' + Innerleven.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a + href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Golfers wear + tacks in their shoes that they may stand firm when they strike. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a + href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Names for + different kinds of clubs. + </p> + </div> + <div class="footnote"> + <p> + <a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a + href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> The name of a + noted distillery. + </p> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Percha" id="Percha"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_076.png" + width="275" height="60" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + IN PRAISE OF <i>GUTTA PERCHA</i>. + </h2> + <p class="center"> + (1856.) <br /><br /> <span class="smcap">Tune</span>—<i>Dainty Davie.</i> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Of</span> a' the changes that of + late<br /></span> <span class="i2">Have shaken Europe's social state—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Let wondering politicians prate,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">And 'bout them mak a wark a'—<br /></span> <span + class="i2">A subject mair congenial here,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + dearer to a Golfer's ear<br /></span> <span class="i2">I sing—the + change brought round last year<br /></span> <span class="i4">By balls of + <i>Gutta Percha!</i><br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Tho' Gouf be of our games most rare,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Yet truth to speak, the tear and wear<br /></span> <span + class="i2">O' balls was felt to be severe,<br /></span> <span class="i4">And + source o' great vexation;<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a + name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span><span class="i2">When + Gourlay's balls cost half-a-croun,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + Allan's no a farthing doun,<br /></span> <span class="i2">The feck o's + wad been harried soon,<br /></span> <span class="i4">In this era of + taxation.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">But times are changed—we dinna care<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Though we may ne'er drive leather mair,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Be't stuffed wi' feather or wi' hair—<br /></span> + <span class="i4">For noo we're independent.<br /></span> <span class="i2">At + last a substance we hae got,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Frae which for + scarce mair than a groat,<br /></span> <span class="i2">A ba' comes that + can row and stot—<br /></span> <span class="i4">A ba' the most + transcendent.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Hail, <i>Gutta Percha</i>, precious gum!<br /></span> + <span class="i2">O'er Scotland's links lang may ye bum;<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Some purse-proud billies haw and hum,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">And say ye're douf at fleein';<br /></span> <span class="i2">But + let them try ye fairly out,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Wi' ony balls + for days about,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Your merits they will + loudly tout,<br /></span> <span class="i4">And own they hae been leein'.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">And noo that a' your praise is spent,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Ye'll listen to a friend's comment,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And kindlier tak on wi' paint,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Then + ye wad be perfection.<br /></span> <span class="i2">And sure some + scientific loon,<br /></span> <span class="i2">On Golfing will bestow a + boon,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And gie ye a cosmetic soon,<br /></span> + <span class="i4">And brighten your complexion.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_078.png" width="145" height="120" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Far" id="Far"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_079.png" + width="206" height="60" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + "FAR AND SURE!" + </h2> + <p class="center"> + <span class="smcap">By the late Sheriff Logan.</span> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i0" style="margin-left: -.5em;">"<span class="smcap">Far</span> + and sure! far and sure!" 'twas the cry of our fathers,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">'Twas a cry which their forefathers heard;<br /></span> <span + class="i0">'Tis the cry of their sons when the mustering gathers:<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When we're gone may it still be the word.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i0" style="margin-left: -.5em;">"Far and sure!" there is + honour and hope in the sound;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Long over + these Links may it roll!<br /></span> <span class="i0">It will—O it + will! for each face around<br /></span> <span class="i2">Shows its magic + is felt in each soul.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i0">Let it guide us in life; at the desk or the bar,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">It will shield us from folly's gay lure;<br /></span> + <span class="i0">Then, tho' rough be the course, and the winning post <i>far</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We will carry the stakes—O be <i>sure!</i><br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i0">Let it guide us in Golf, whether "Burgess" or "Star;"<br /></span> + <span class="i2">At the last round let none look demure:<br /></span> + <span class="i0">All Golfers are brothers when <i>driving</i> is <i>far</i>,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">When putting is canny and <i>sure</i>.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i0" style="margin-left: -.5em;">"Far and sure! far and + sure!" fill the bumper and drain it,<br /></span> <span class="i2">May + our motto for ever endure;<br /></span> <span class="i0">May time never + maim it, nor dishonour stain it;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Then + drink, brothers, drink, "Far and sure!"<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_080.png" width="153" height="105" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="Gae_bring" id="Gae_bring"> </a> <br /> <img + src="images/illo_081.png" width="290" height="60" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG. + </h2> + <p class="center"> + <span class="smcap">Tune</span>—<i>Scotland yet.</i> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">Gae</span> bring my guid auld clubs + ance mair—<br /></span> <span class="i4">Come, laddie, bring them + fast,<br /></span> <span class="i2">For I maun hae anither game,<br /></span> + <span class="i4">E'er the autumn season's past;<br /></span> <span + class="i2">And trow ye as I play, my lads,<br /></span> <span class="i4">My + song shall ever be,<br /></span> <span class="i2">"Auld Scotland's royal + game o' Gouf—<br /></span> <span class="i4">Our country's game for + me."<br /></span> <span class="i8">Then here's a toast to Goufin' yet,<br /></span> + <span class="i10">Wi' a' the honours three.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Throw by that walloping surtout—<br /></span> + <span class="i4">On wi' my auld red jacket—<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Haul aff thae gripless Wellingtons<br /></span> <span + class="i4">For yon shoon wi' mony a tacket.<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span><span + class="i2">Hang up that snoring Albert hat—<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Yon foraging-cap for me;<br /></span> <span class="i2">And now + a Golfer I walk forth,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Frae worldly care + set free.<br /></span> <span class="i8">Then here's a toast, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Now, laddie, pouch thae Gourlay ba's,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Wi' joy they'll dance a reel—<br /></span> <span + class="i2">My play-club capers in my hand,<br /></span> <span class="i4">As + supple as an eel.<br /></span> <span class="i2">And see! my partner's on + the green,<br /></span> <span class="i4">His ba' upon the tee—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Impatient, round he swings his club,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Making heads o' gowans flee.<br /></span> <span class="i8">Then + here's a toast, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">How sweet's the air upon the links<br /></span> <span + class="i4">That stretch along the sea!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Where, + bending down white clover heads.<br /></span> <span class="i4">In silence + sips the bee.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Our steps how light! as on we + speed<br /></span> <span class="i4">O'er bouyant knowes o' balm,<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span><span + class="i2">To where our balls in distance lie,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Like mushrooms on the lawn.<br /></span> <span class="i8">Then + here's a toast, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">And 'tween each stroke how socially<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Abreast in crack we go,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + shape o' club and mak o' ba'<br /></span> <span class="i4">Discuss wi' + sportsman's glow.<br /></span> <span class="i2">Then hale-lung'd laughter + peals aloud,<br /></span> <span class="i4">And banter stingless flies,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">And tears o' mirth astonished run<br /></span> <span + class="i4">From sad dyspeptics' eyes.<br /></span> <span class="i8">Then + here's a toast, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">And when some rounds demand a rest,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">And appetite is keen,<br /></span> <span class="i2">How sweet + to taste the Golfer's fare,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Reclining on + the green!<br /></span> <span class="i2">Ne'er aldermen at turtle feast<br /></span> + <span class="i4">Washed over with champagne,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Rejoiced + like us, as baps we tear,<br /></span> <span class="i4">And jugs o' + "Berwick's" drain.<br /></span> <span class="i8">Then here's a toast, + etc.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Our caddies at our feet reclined,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Their sheaves o' clubs at rest—<br /></span> <span + class="i2">Happy to hear the Golfers' lore,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Chew + on wi' silent zest.<br /></span> <span class="i2">But up, like giants + flushed with wine,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Again our clubs we wield—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">We feel new vigour in our arms,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">And ardent take the field.<br /></span> <span class="i8">Then + here's a toast, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Thus on we've toiled at Dubbieside,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">But 'neath the Lomond hill<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + sun has sunk, and the whirling din<br /></span> <span class="i4">Has + ceased at Kirkland Mill.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The sand-eel crowd + is thickening black<br /></span> <span class="i4">By the mouth o' Leven + stream,<br /></span> <span class="i2">And the wearied <i>Tar</i> in Largo + Bay<br /></span> <span class="i4">Lets off the roaring <i>steam</i>.<br /></span> + <span class="i8">So here's a toast, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">So here's a health to our ain club,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">St. Andrews next, our mither—<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span><span + class="i2">A bumper to Dunbarnie next,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Our + neibour and our brither:<br /></span> <span class="i2">Auld Dubbieside + salutes ye a';<br /></span> <span class="i4">And if you wish to meet her,<br /></span> + <span class="i2">You'll find her ready at a ca',<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Wi' her gallant captain <span class="smcap">Peter</span>.<br /></span> + <span class="i8">So here's a toast, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <img src="images/illo_085.png" width="128" height="120" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="dingy" id="dingy"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_086.png" + width="307" height="60" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + A GOLFING SONG. + </h2> + <p class="center"> + <span class="smcap">By Mr. James Ballantine.</span> <br /><br /> <span + class="smcap">Tune</span>—<i>Let Haughty Gaul.</i> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4"><span class="smcap">Come</span>, leave your dingy desks + and shops.<br /></span> <span class="i6">Ye sons of ancient Reekie,<br /></span> + <span class="i4">And by green fields and sunny slopes,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">For healthy pastime seek ye.<br /></span> <span class="i4">Don't + bounce about your "<i>dogs of war</i>,"<br /></span> <span class="i6">Nor + at our <i>shinties</i> scoff, boys,<br /></span> <span class="i4">But + learn our motto, "<i>Sure and Far</i>,"<br /></span> <span class="i6">Then + come and play at Golf, boys.<br /></span> <span class="i2"><i>Chorus</i>—Three + rounds of Bruntsfield Links will chase<br /></span> <span class="i8">All + murky vapours off, boys;<br /></span> <span class="i6">And nothing can + your sinews brace<br /></span> <span class="i8">Like the glorious game of + Golf, boys.<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" + id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Above our head the clear blue sky,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">We bound the gowan'd sward o'er,<br /></span> <span class="i4">And + as our balls fly far and high,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Our bosoms + glow with ardour;<br /></span> <span class="i4">While dear Edina, + Scotland's Queen,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Her misty cap lifts off, + boys,<br /></span> <span class="i4">And smiles serenely on the green,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">Graced by the game of Golf, boys.<br /></span> <span + class="i12"><i>Chorus</i>—Three rounds, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">We putt, we drive, we laugh, we chat,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">Our strokes and jokes aye clinking,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">We banish all extraneous fat,<br /></span> <span class="i6">And + all extraneous thinking.<br /></span> <span class="i4">We'll cure you of + a summer cold,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Or of a winter cough, boys,<br /></span> + <span class="i4">We'll make you young, even when you're old,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">So come and play at Golf, boys.<br /></span> <span + class="i12"><i>Chorus</i>—Three rounds, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">When in the dumps with mulligrubs,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">Or doyte with barley-bree, boys,<br /></span> <span + class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span><span + class="i4">Go get you of the green three rubs,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">'Twill set you on the "<i>Tee</i>," boys.<br /></span> <span + class="i4">There's no disease we cannot cure,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">No care we cannot doff, boys;<br /></span> <span class="i4">Our + aim is ever "<i>Far and Sure</i>"—<br /></span> <span class="i6">So + come and play at Golf, boys.<br /></span> <span class="i12"><i>Chorus</i>—Three + rounds, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">O blessings on pure cauler air,<br /></span> <span + class="i6">And every healthy sport, boys,<br /></span> <span class="i4">That + makes sweet Nature seem more fair,<br /></span> <span class="i6">And + makes long life seem short, boys;<br /></span> <span class="i4">That + warms your hearts with genial glow,<br /></span> <span class="i6">And + makes you halve your loaf, boys,<br /></span> <span class="i4">With every + needy child of woe—<br /></span> <span class="i6">So bless the game + of Golf, boys.<br /></span> <span class="i12"><i>Chorus</i>—Three + rounds, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i4">Then don your brilliant scarlet coats,<br /></span> + <span class="i6">With your bright blue velvet caps, boys.<br /></span> + <span class="i4">And some shall play the <i>rocket shots</i><br /></span> + <span class="i6">And some the <i>putting paps</i>, boys.<br /></span> + <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span><span + class="i4">No son of Scotland, man or boy,<br /></span> <span class="i6">Shall + e'er become an oaf, boys,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Who gathers + friendship, health, and joy,<br /></span> <span class="i6">In playing at + the Golf, boys.<br /></span> <span class="i12"><i>Chorus</i>—Three + rounds, etc.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_089.png" width="162" height="90" alt="" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 65%;" /> + <p> + <!-- span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span --> + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <a name="laddies" id="laddies"> </a> <br /> <img src="images/illo_090.png" + width="272" height="60" alt="" /> + </div> + <h2> + GOLFING SONG. + </h2> + <p class="center"> + <span class="smcap">Tune</span>—<i>Clean Pease Strae.</i> + </p> + <div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2"><span class="smcap">When</span> Tom and me were + laddies,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Oor pastimes were but sma'—<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A game at common shinty,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Or + playin' at the ba';<br /></span> <span class="i2">But lang since then a + game we ken,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Enticin' great and sma':<br /></span> + <span class="i2">A king I ween aroun' Leith green<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Has often gowff'd the ba'.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Wi' glorious Gowff brave Scotia's game,<br /></span> + <span class="i4">Oor youth comes back ance mair,<br /></span> <span + class="i2">When, swift and free as birds on wing,<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Oor balls fly through the air.<br /></span> <span class="i2">The + rays o' fortune's golden star<br /></span> <span class="i4">Most earthly + ills can cure;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Gowff helps to keep the + others "<i>far</i>,"<br /></span> <span class="i4">Or makes their absence + "<i>sure</i>."<br /></span> <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" + id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">When ice is keen the curlin' steen<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Wi' birr gaes straught awa',<br /></span> <span class="i2">And + cricket on the meadow green,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Seems manly, + brisk, and braw;<br /></span> <span class="i2">But, laddie, tak a club in + han',<br /></span> <span class="i4">Then tee and drive the ba';<br /></span> + <span class="i2">Ye'll find the royal game o' Gowff<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Is better than them a'.<br /></span> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <span class="i2">Oor volunteers wi' guns and spears<br /></span> <span + class="i4">Keep foreign foes in awe;<br /></span> <span class="i2">Noo + Britain's youth shield north an' south,<br /></span> <span class="i4">Laigh + cot and stately ha';<br /></span> <span class="i2">Sae ne'er a foe shall + Scotland fear<br /></span> <span class="i4">While Scotland's game we + play,<br /></span> <span class="i2">Though we should leave the <i>puttin'</i> + green<br /></span> <span class="i4">To buckle for the fray.<br /></span> + </div> + </div> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/illo_091.png" width="46" height="45" alt="" /> + </div> + <p class="center"> + <i>Printed by</i> <span class="smcap">R. Clark</span>, <i>Edinburgh</i>. + </p> + <div class="figcenter"> + <br /> <img src="images/back.png" width="423" height="600" alt="back cover" /> + </div> + <hr style="width: 75%;" /> + <h2> + <a name="Transcribers_Notes" id="Transcribers_Notes"></a>Transcriber's + Notes: + </h2> + <p class="tn"> + Dialect and archaic spelling abound in the original and are retained here. + Variations in hyphenation, punctuation, and use of accents appear as in + the original, except as noted below. + </p> + <ul class="tn"> + <li> + Page vii: added comma (DRYSDALE,) + </li> + <li> + Page 10: <i>this</i> to this (<i>Pygmalion</i> this stout arm) + </li> + <li> + Page 10: spelling retained from original (Goliah's spear) + </li> + <li> + Page 37: hyphen removed before "and" (<i>Electro-Talbot</i> and) + </li> + <li> + Page 69: bouyant to buoyant (O'er buoyant knowes) + </li> + </ul> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Poems on Golf, by Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON GOLF *** + +***** This file should be named 37323-h.htm or 37323-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/3/2/37323/ + +Produced by C.S. 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--git a/37323-h/images/illo_090.png b/37323-h/images/illo_090.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..baf9f0a --- /dev/null +++ b/37323-h/images/illo_090.png diff --git a/37323-h/images/illo_091.png b/37323-h/images/illo_091.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..917c16c --- /dev/null +++ b/37323-h/images/illo_091.png diff --git a/37323.txt b/37323.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8417572 --- /dev/null +++ b/37323.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2276 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Poems on Golf, by Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems on Golf + +Author: Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +Release Date: September 6, 2011 [EBook #37323] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON GOLF *** + + + + +Produced by C.S. Beers, Greg Bergquist and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + + [Illustration: POEMS ON GOLF] + + + + + POEMS + ON + GOLF + + [Decoration] + + EDINBURGH + Printed for Private Circulation + 1867 + + [Illustration: J.M. CORNER] + + + + +Some Members of THE EDINBURGH BURGESS GOLFING SOCIETY having resolved to +collect and print a few fugitive pieces in verse relating to the game of +GOLF, the following Poems and Songs have been after some labour +procured, and are now printed (some for the first time) for private +circulation among the Subscribers whose names are appended. + + EDINBURGH, _April 1867_. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + PAGE + + THE GOFF, an Heroi-comical Poem 1 + + GOLFIANA--Address to St. Andrews 20 + + " The Golfiad 22 + + " The first Hole at St. Andrews + on a crowded day 29 + + " Another Peep at the Links 36 + + THE NINE HOLES OF ST. ANDREWS LINKS 48 + + SCRAP--"The following scrap" &c. 56 + + SONG--The Golfers' Garland 57 + + " The Links o' Innerleven 60 + + " In praise of Gutta Percha 63 + + " "Far and Sure" 66 + + " "Gae bring my guid auld clubs" 68 + + " "Come, leave your dingy desks" 73 + + " "When Tom and me were laddies" 77 + + + + + LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. + + + BANNATYNE, ADAM B., Advocate. + BARCLAY, JAS., Writer. + BAYLEY, GEO., W.S. + BELL, W. H., A.C.S. + BEVERIDGE, WILL. T. R., A.C.S. + BRODIE, WM., R.S.A. + BROWN, W. A., Advocate. + BROWN, THOMAS, Writer. + BURN, GEORGE, W.S. + + CALDER, A., Insurance Manager. + CHISHOLM, JOHN K., Dentist. + CLARK, AND. R., Advocate. + CLARK, R., Printer. + CURROR, D., S.S.C. + + DRUMMOND, JAMES, R.S.A. + DRYSDALE, WILLIAM, D.C.S. + + FRASER, WM. N., of Tornaveen. + + GOUGH, OWEN, Holyrood Palace. + + HAY, JAMES, Esq., Leith. + HENDERSON, ANDREW, Writer. + HENDERSON, DAVID, Writer. + HUTCHISON, H., Writer. + HUTTON, WM., Writer. + + JACK, JNO., Writer. + JAMIESON, JAMES T., S.S.C. + JOHNSTON, ROB., Solicitor. + + KINNEAR, JAS., Writer. + KIRKWOOD, JAMES, Merchant. + + LANDALE, THO., S.S.C. + LEE, ROBERT, Advocate. + LEGGAT, JAMES, Coal Master. + LEISHMAN, JOHN, W.S. + + MACKENZIE, JOHN, W.S. + MACMILLAN, H., Writer. + M'EWEN, J., Writer. + MANN, W., Writer. + MELVILLE, F. SUTHER, A.C.S. + MILLAR, WM., Board of Supervision. + MITCHELL, A., Banker. + MONCREIFF, JAMES, M.P., Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. + MONCRIEFF, A., Advocate. + MORRISON, AD., S.S.C. + MURRAY, ANDW., Jun., W.S. + + PATTISON, G. H., Advocate. + + REID, WILLIAM, Writer. + + SHAW, ROBERT B., Assistant Clerk of the Bills. + SMITH, DANIEL, Corn Factor. + STEVEN, ROBERT, Writer. + STEVENSON, PETER, Philosophical Instrument Maker. + + THOMS, GEO. H., Advocate. + THOMPSON, J. GIBSON. + THOMSON, JOHN, S.S.C. + THOMSON, W. M., Advocate. + + WADDELL, ALEX. PEDDIE, W.S. + WELCH, C., Writer, Cupar. + WILLIAMSON, JAMES, Traveller. + WILSON, GEO. B., Accountant. + + YOUNG, J. WM., 22 Royal Circus. + + * * * * * + + + + + [Decoration] + + 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 balls 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, Goddess 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 shore. + 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 _Dickson_, 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 Goddess 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 Goddess 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 passed + 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 noblest 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 Goddess 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 Goddess 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, + Assist 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 balls instruct my Muse to soar: + So may thy green for ever crowded be, + And balls on balls 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 assert 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 balls with careful eye, + That with _Clarinda's_ breasts 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-stitched 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 cock. + 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 balls. + But when the glorious God 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 balls 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 balls 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 balls 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 shore. + Then great _Castalio_ his whole strength collects, + And on the orb a noble 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 _Parnassus_ view + The subject world, and all that's done below; + Who from oblivion snatch 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 Goddess 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 shining 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 goddess, 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. + To whom GOLFINIA: Fate-fulfilling maid, + Hear the Fates' will, and be their will obey'd: + Straight to the field of fight thyself convey, + Where brave _Castalio_ and _Pygmalion_ stray; + There bid the long-protracted combat cease, + And with thy bays _Castalio's_ temples grace.-- + She said; and swift, as _Hermes_ from above + Shoots to perform the high behests of _Jove_, + VICTORIA from her sister's presence flies, + Pleased to bestow the long-disputed prize. + Meanwhile the chiefs for the last hole contend, + The last great hole, which should their labours end; + For this the chiefs exert their skill and might, + To drive the balls, and to direct their flight. + Thus two fleet coursers for the Royal plate + (The others distanc'd) run the final heat; + With all his might each gen'rous racer flies, + And all his art each panting rider tries, + While show'rs of gold and praises warm his breast, + And gen'rous emulation fires the beast. + His trusty club _Pygmalion_ dauntless plies: + The ball ambitious climbs the lofty skies; + But soon, ah! soon, descends upon the field, + The adverse winds the lab'ring orb repell'd. + Thus when a fowl, whom wand'ring sportsmen scare, + Leaves the sown land, and mounts the fields of air, + Short is his flight; the fiery _Furies_ wound, + And bring him tumbling headlong to the ground. + Not so _Castalio_ lifts th' unerring club, + But with superior art attacks the globe; + The well-struck ball the stormy wind beguil'd, + And like a swallow skimm'd along the field. + An harmless sheep, by Fate decreed to fall, + Feels the dire fury of the rapid ball; + Full on her front the raging bullet flew, + And sudden anguish seiz'd the silent ewe; + Stagg'ring, she falls upon the verdant plain, + Convulsive pangs distract her wounded brain. + Great PAN beheld her stretch'd upon the grass, + Nor unreveng'd permits the crime to pass: + Th' _Arcadian_ God, with grief and fury stung, + Snatch'd his stout crook, and fierce to vengeance sprung; + His faithful dogs their master's steps pursue; + The fleecy flocks before their father bow,-- + With bleatings hoarse salute him as he strode; + And frisking lambkins dance around the God. + The sire of sheep then lifted from the ground + The panting dam, and piss'd upon the wound: + The stream divine soon eas'd the mother's pain; + The wise immortals never piss in vain. + Then to the ball his horny foot applies, + Before his foot the kick'd offender flies. + The hapless orb a gaping face detain'd; + Deep sunk in sand the hapless orb remain'd. + As VERDURILLA mark'd the ball's arrest, + She with resentment fired _Castalio's_ breast. + The nymph assum'd _Patrico's_ shape and mien, + Like great _Patrico_ stalk'd along the green; + So well his manner and his accent feign'd, + _Castalio_ deemed _Patrico's_ self complain'd. + Ah, sad disgrace! see rustic herds invade + GOLFINIAN plains, the angry fairy said: + Your ball abus'd, your hopes and projects cross'd, + The game endanger'd, and the hole nigh lost. + Thus brutal PAN resents his wounded ewe, + Tho' chance, not you, did guide the fatal blow. + Incens'd _Castalio_ makes her no replies, + T' attack the God, the furious mortal flies; + His iron-headed club around he swings, + And fierce at PAN the pond'rous weapon flings. + Affrighted PAN the dreadful missive shunn'd, + But blameless _Tray_ receiv'd a deadly wound: + Ill-fated _Tray_ no more the flocks shall tend, + In anguish doom'd his shorten'd life to end. + Nor could great PAN afford a timely aid; + Great PAN himself before the hero fled: + Even he--a God--a mortal's fury dreads, + And far and fast from bold _Castalio_ speeds. + To free the ball the chief now turns his mind, + Flies to the bank where lay the orb confined; + The pond'rous club upon the ball descends, + Involv'd in dust th' exulting orb ascends. + Their loud applause the pleas'd spectators raise; + The hollow bank resounds _Castalio's_ praise. + A mighty blow _Pygmalion_ then lets fall, + Straight from th' impulsive engine starts the ball, + Answ'ring its master's just design, it hastes, + And from the hole scarce twice two clubs' length rests. + Ah! what avails thy skill, since fate decrees + Thy conqu'ring foe to bear away the prize? + Full fifteen clubs' length from the hole he lay + A wide cart-road before him cross'd his way; + The deep-cut tracks th' intrepid chief defies; + High o'er the road the ball triumphing flies, + Lights on the green, and scours into the hole; + Down with it sinks depress'd _Pygmalion's_ soul. + Seiz'd with surprise, th' affrighted hero stands, + And feebly tips the ball with trembling hands. + The creeping ball its want of force complains, + A grassy tuft the loit'ring orb detains. + Surrounding crowds the victor's praise proclaim, + The echoing shore resounds _Castalio's_ name. + For him _Pygmalion_ must the bowl prepare, + To him must yield the honours of the war; + On fame's triumphant wings his name shall soar + Till time shall end, or GOFFING be no more. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ADDRESS TO ST. ANDREWS. + + + St. Andrews! they say that thy glories are gone, + That thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'erthrown: + If thy glories _be_ gone, they are only, methinks, + As it were, by enchantment, transferr'd to thy Links. + Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates, + Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots, + Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers, + When we say that instead there are Links full of Goffers, + With more of good heart and good feeling among them + Than the abbots, the monks, or the zealots who sung them: + We have red coats and bonnets, we've putters and clubs; + The green has its bunkers, its hazards, and _rubs_; + At the long hole across we have biscuits and beer, + And the Hebes who sell it give zest to the cheer: + If this make not up for the pomp and the splendour + Of mitres, and murders, and mass--we'll surrender; + If Goffers and caddies be not better neighbours + Than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres, + Let such fancies remain with the fool who so thinks, + While we toast old St. Andrews, its Goffers and Links. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE GOLFIAD. + + _Arma, virumq. cano._--VIRGIL, _AEn._ i. l. 1. + + + Balls, clubs, and men I sing, who first, methinks, + Made sport and bustle on North Berwick Links, + Brought coin and fashion, betting, and renown, + Champagne and claret, to a country town, + And lords and ladies, knights and squires, to ground + Where washerwomen erst and snobs were found! + + Had I the powers of him who sung of Troy-- + Gem of the learned, bore of every boy-- + Or him, the bard of Rome, who, later, told + How great AEneas roam'd and fought of old-- + I then might shake the gazing world like them; + For who denies I have as grand a theme? + Time-honour'd Golf!--I heard it whisper'd once + That he who could not play was held a dunce + On old Olympus, when it teem'd with gods. + O rare!--but it's a lie--I'll bet the odds! + No doubt these heathen gods, the very minute + They knew the game, would have delighted in it! + Wars, storms, and thunders--all would have been off! + Mars, Jove, and Neptune would have studied Golf, + And swiped--like Oliphant and Wood below-- + Smack over hell[2] at one immortal go! + Had Mecca's Prophet known the noble game + Before he gave his paradise to fame, + He would have promis'd, in the land of light, + Golf all the day--and Houris all the night! + But this is speculation: we must come, + And work the subject rather nearer home; + Lest, in attempting all too high to soar, + We fall, like Icarus, to rise no more. + + The game is ancient--manly--and employs, + In its departments, women, men, and boys: + Men play the game, the boys the clubs convey, + And lovely woman gives the prize away, + When August brings the great, the medal day! + Nay, more: tho' some may doubt, and sneer, and scoff, + The female muse has sung the game of Goff, + And trac'd it down, with choicest skill and grace, + Thro' all its bearings, to the human race; + The tee, the start of youth--the game, our life-- + The ball when fairly bunkered, man and wife. + + Now, Muse, assist me while I strive to name + The varied skill and chances of the game. + Suppose we play a match: if all agree, + Let Clan and Saddell tackle Baird and me. + Reader, attend! and learn to play at Goff; + The lord of Saddell and myself strike off! + He strikes--he's in the ditch--this hole is ours; + Bang goes my ball--it's bunker'd, by the pow'rs. + But better play succeeds, these blunders past, + And in six strokes the hole is halved at last. + + O hole! tho' small, and scarcely to be seen, + Till we are close upon thee, on the green; + And tho' when seen, save Golfers, few can prize, + The value, the delight that in thee lies; + Yet, without thee, our tools were useless all-- + The club, the spoon, the putter, and the ball: + For all is done--each ball arranged on tee, + Each stroke directed--but to enter thee! + If--as each tree, and rock, and cave of old, + Had _its_ presiding nymph, as we are told-- + Thou hast _thy_ nymph; I ask for nothing but + Her aid propitious when I come to putt. + Now for the second: And here Baird and Clan + In turn must prove which is the better man: + Sir David swipes sublime!--into the quarry![3] + Whiz goes the chief--a sneezer,[4] by Old Harry! + "Now, lift the stones, but do not touch the ball, + The hole is lost if it but move at all: + Well play'd, my cock! you could not have done more; + 'Tis bad, but still we may get home at four." + Now, near the hole Sir David plays the odds; + Clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods! + "A most disgusting _steal_;[5] well, come away, + They're one ahead, but we have four to play. + We'll win it yet, if I can cross the ditch: + They're over, smack! come, there's another _sich_."[6] + Baird plays a trump--we hole at three--they stare, + And miss their putt--so now the match is square. + + And here, who knows but, as old Homer sung, + The scales of fight on Jove's own finger hung? + Here Clan and Saddell; there swing Baird and I,-- + Our merits, that's to say; for half an eye + Could tell, if _bodies_ in the scales were laid, + Which must descend, and which must rise ahead. + + If Jove were thus engaged, we did not see him, + But told our boys to clean the balls and tee 'em. + In this next hole the turf is most uneven; + We play like tailors--only in at seven, + And they at six; most miserable play! + But let them laugh who win. Hear Saddell say, + "Now, by the piper who the pibroch played + Before old Moses, we are one ahead, + And only two to play--a special _coup_! + Three five-pound notes to one!" "Done, sir, with you." + We start again; and in this dangerous hole[7] + Full many a stroke is played with heart and soul: + "Give me the iron!" either party cries, + As in the quarry, track, or sand he lies. + We reach the green at last, at even strokes; + Some caddy chatters, _that_ the chief provokes, + And makes him miss his putt; Baird holes the ball; + Thus, with but one to play, 'tis even all! + 'Tis strange, and yet there cannot be a doubt, + That such a snob should put a chieftain out: + The noble lion, thus, in all his pride, + Stung by the gadfly, roars and starts aside; + Clan did _not_ roar--_he_ never makes a noise-- + But said, "They're very troublesome, these boys." + His partner muttered something not so civil, + Particularly, "scoundrels"--"at the devil!" + Now Baird and Clan in turn strike off and play[8] + Two strokes, the best that have been seen to-day. + His spoon next Saddell takes, and plays a trump-- + Mine should have been as good but for a bump + That turn'd it off. Baird plays the odds--it's all + But in!--at five yards, good, Clan holes the ball! + My partner, self, and song--all three are done! + We lose the match, and all the bets thereon! + Perhaps you think that, tho' I'm not a winner, + My muse should stay and celebrate the dinner; + The ample joints that travel up the stair, + To grace the table spread by Mrs. Blair; + The wine, the ale, the toasts, the jokes, the songs, + And all that to such revelry belongs;-- + It may not be! 'twere fearful falling off + To sing such trifles after singing Golf + In most majestic strain; let others dwell + On such, and rack their carnal brains to tell + A tale of sensuality!--Farewell! + +[Footnote 2: Hell is a range of broken ground on St. Andrews Links, +bearing probably the same proportion to the _ordinary_ course of the +Links as hell would to heaven in the opinion of these immortals.] + +[Footnote 3: A place on North Berwick Links, so awkward, that in playing +out of it one is allowed to remove everything, provided the position of +the ball is not altered.] + +[Footnote 4: A long and scientific stroke at golf.] + +[Footnote 5: _Steal_, the act of holing the ball contrary to +probability.] + +[Footnote 6: A slang term for _such_.] + +[Footnote 7: Fifth hole.] + +[Footnote 8: Sixth hole.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS ON A CROWDED DAY. + + _Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit._--AEN. i. l. 208. + + + 'Tis morn! and man awakes, by sleep refresh'd, + To do whate'er he has to do with zest; + But at St. Andrews, where my scene is laid, + _One_ only thought can enter every head; + The thought of Golf, to wit--and that engages + Men of all sizes, tempers, ranks, and ages; + The root--the _primum mobile_ of all, + The epidemic of the club and ball; + The work by day, the source of dreams by night, + The never-failing fountain of delight! + Here, Mr. Philp, club-maker, is as great + _As Philip_--as any minister of state! + And every caddy as profess'd a hero + As Captain Cook, or Wellington, or Nero! + For instance--Davie, oldest of the cads, + Who gives _half-one_ to unsuspicious lads, + When he _might_ give them _two_, or even _more_, + And win, perhaps, three matches out of four, + Is just as politic in _his_ affairs + As Talleyrand or Metternich in _theirs_. + He has the statesman's elements, 'tis plain, + Cheat, flatter, humbug--_anything_ for gain; + And had he trod the world's wide field, methinks, + As long as he has trod St. Andrews Links, + He might have been prime minister, or priest, + My lord, or plain _Sir David_ at the least! + + Now, to the ground of Golf my muse shall fly, + The various men assembled to descry, + Nine-tenths of whom, throughout the rolling year, + At the first hole _unfailingly_ appear; + Where, "How d'ye do?" "Fine morning," "Rainy day," + And, "What's the match?" are preludes to the play. + So full the meeting that I scarcely can, + In such a crowd, distinguish man from man. + We'll take them as they come:--He next the wall, + Outside, upon the right, is Mr. Saddell; + And well he plays, though, rising on his toes, + Whiz round his head his _supple_ club he throws. + There, Doctor Moodie, turtle-like, displays + His well-filled paunch, and swipes beyond all praise; + While Cuttlehill, of slang and chatter chief, + Provokes the bile of Captain George Moncrieffe. + See Colonel Playfair, shaped in form _rotund_, + Parade, the unrivall'd Falstaff of the ground; + He laughs and jokes, plays, "what you like," and yet + You'll rarely find him make a foolish bet. + Against the sky, display'd in high relief, + I see the figure of Clanranald's Chief, + Dress'd most correctly in the _fancy_ style, + Well-whisker'd face, and radiant with a smile; + He bows, shakes hands, and has a word for all-- + So did Beau Nash, as master of the ball! + Near him is Saddell, dress'd in blue coat plain, + With lots of Gourlays,[9] free from spot or stain; + He whirls his club to catch the proper _swing_, + And freely bets round all the scarlet ring; + And swears by _Ammon_, he'll engage to drive + As long a ball as any man alive! + That's Major Playfair, a man of nerve unshaken-- + He knows a thing or two, or I'm mistaken; + And when he's press'd, can play a tearing game, + He works for _certainty_ and not for _Fame_! + There's none--I'll back the assertion with a wager-- + Can play the _heavy iron_ like the Major. + Next him is Craigie Halkett, one who can + Swipe out, for distance, against any man; + But in what _course_ the ball so struck may go, + No looker on--not he himself--can know. + See Major Holcroft, he's a steady hand + Among the best of all the Golfing band; + He plays a winning game in every part, + But near the hole displays the greatest art. + There young Patullo stands, and he, methinks, + Can drive the longest ball upon the Links; + And well he plays the spoon and iron, but + He fails a _little_ when he comes to _putt_. + Near Captain Cheape, a sailor by profession + (But not so good at Golf as navigation), + Is Mr. Peter Glass, who once could play + A better game than he can do to-day. + We cannot last for ever! and the _gout_, + Confirmed, is wondrous apt to put us out. + There, to the left, I see Mount-Melville stand + Erect, his _driving putter_ in his hand; + It is a club he cannot leave behind, + It works the balls so well against the wind. + Sir David Erskine has come into play, + He has not won the medal _yet_, but _may_. + Dost love the greatest laugher of the lot?-- + Then play a round with little Mr. Scott: + He is a merry cock, and seems to me + To win or lose with equal ecstasy. + Here's Mr. Messieux, he's a noble player, + But something _nervous_--that's a bad affair; + It sadly spoils his putting, when he's _press'd_-- + But let him _win_, and he will beat the _best_. + That little man that's seated on the ground + In red, must be Carnegie, I'll be bound! + A most conceited dog, not slow to _go it_ + At Golf, or anything--a _sort_ of poet; + He talks to Wood--John Wood--who ranks among + The tip-top hands that to the Club belong; + And Oliphant, the rival of the last, + Whose play, at times, can scarcely be surpass'd. + Who's he that's just arrived?--I know him well; + It is the Cupar Provost, John Dalzell: + When he _does_ hit the ball, he swipes like blazes-- + It is but _seldom_, and _himself_ amazes; + But when he winds his horn, and leads the chase, + The Laird of Lingo's in his proper place. + It has been _said_ that, at the _break of day_ + His Golf is better than his evening play: + That must be scandal; for I am sure that none + Could think of Golf before the rise of sun. + He now is talking to his lady's brother, + A man of politics, Sir Ralph Anstruther: + Were he but once in Parliament, methinks, + And working _there_ as well as on the _Links_, + The burghs, I'll be bound, would not repent them + That they had such a man to represent them: + There's _one thing_ only--when he's _on the roll_, + He must not lose his _nerve_, as when he's near the hole. + Upon his right is Major Bob Anstruther; + Cobbet's _one_ radical--and he's _another_. + + But when we meet, as here, to play at Golf, + Whig, Radical, and Tory--all are off-- + Off the contested politics, I mean-- + And fun and harmony illume the scene. + We make our matches from the love of playing, + Without one loathsome feeling but the _paying_, + And that is lessened by the thought, we _borrow_ + Only to-day what we shall _win_ to-morrow. + Then, here's prosperity to Golf! and long + May those who play be cheerful, fresh, and strong; + When _driving_ ceases, may we still be able + To play the _shorts_, _putt_, and be comfortable! + And to the latest may we fondly cherish + The thoughts of Golf--so let St. Andrews flourish! + +[Footnote 9: Meaning plenty of balls, made by Mr. Gourlay of Bruntsfield +Links, a famous artist. The gentleman alluded to generally has, at +_least_, twelve dozen.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. + + _Alter erit tum Typhys, et altera quae vehat Argo + Dilectos heroas--erunt etiam altera bella._ + VIRG. GEORGIC. + + + Awake, my slumb'ring Muse, and plume thy wing, + Our former theme--the Game of Golf--to sing! + For since the subject last inspired my pen, + Ten years have glided by, or nearly ten. + Still the old hands at Golf delight to play-- + Still new succeed them as they pass away; + Still ginger-beer and parliament are seen + Serv'd out by Houris to the peopled green; + And still the royal game maintains its place, + And will maintain it through each rising race. + + Still Major Playfair shines, a star at Golf; + And still the Colonel--though a _little_ off; + The former, skill'd in many a curious art, + As chemist, mechanist, can play his part, + And understands, besides the pow'r of swiping, + _Electro-Talbot_ and Daguerreotyping. + Still Colonel Holcroft steady walks the grass, + And still his putting nothing can surpass-- + And still he drives, unless the weather's rough, + Not quite so far as _once_, but far enough. + + Still Saddell walks, superb, improved in play, + Though his blue jacket now is turn'd to grey; + Still are his balls as rife and clean as wont-- + Still swears by Ammon, and still bets the _blunt_-- + Still plays all matches--still is often beat-- + And still in iced punch drowns each fresh defeat. + + Still on the green Clanranald's chief appears, + As gay as ever, as untouch'd by years; + He laughs at Time, and Time, perhaps through whim, + Respects his nonchalance, and laughs at him; + Just fans him with his wings, but spares his head, + As loth to lose a subject so well bred. + + Sir Ralph returns--he has been absent long-- + No less renown'd in Golfing than in song; + With continental learning richly stored, + Teutonic Bards translated and explored; + A _literaire_--a German scholar now, + With all _Griselda's_ honours on his brow! + + The Links have still the pleasure to behold + Messieux, complete in matches, as of old; + He, modest, tells you that his day's gone by: + If any think it _is so_--let them try! + Still portly William Wood is to be seen, + As good as ever on the velvet green, + The same unfailing trump; but John, methinks, + Has taken to the _Turf_, and shies the Links. + + Whether the _Leger_ and the _Derby_ pay + As well as _Hope Grant_, I can scarcely say; + But let that be--'tis better, John, old fellow, + To pluck the _rooks_, than _rook_ the _violoncello_. + + Permit me just a moment to digress-- + Friendship would chide me should I venture less-- + The poor Chinese, there cannot be a doubt, + Will shortly be demolish'd out and out; + But--O how blest beyond the common line + Of conquer'd nations by the Power divine!-- + _Saltoun_ to cut their yellow throats, and then + _Hope Grant_ to play their requiem-notes--Amen! + + Still George Moncrieffe appears the crowd before, + _Lieutenant-Colonel_--Captain now no more; + Improv'd in ev'rything--in looks and life, + And, more than all, the husband of a wife! + + As in the olden time, see Craigie Halkett-- + Wild strokes and swiping, jest, and fun, and rackett; + He leaves us now. But in three years, I trust, + He will return, and sport his _muzzle dust_, + Play Golf again, and patronise all cheer, + From noble _Claret_ down to _bitter beer_. + + Mount-Melville still erect as ever stands, + And plies his club with energetic hands, + Plays short and steady, often is a winner-- + A better Captain never graced a dinner. + + 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 balls? + 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 Glass, 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 snatch'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 balls 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 hits 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 surpassed-- + 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 competition! + + 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, balls, and everything. + But all that's bright must fade, and we who play, + Like those before us, soon must pass 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 passed, 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 _Principalian 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 balls + 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. + + R. C. + + + IV. THE FOURTH OR GINGER-BEER HOLE. + + Though thou hast lost this last unlucky hole, + I say again, betake thee not to swearing, + Or any form of speech profanely daring, + Though some allege it tendeth to console. + Better do thou thy swelling griefs control, + Sagacious that at hand a joy awaits thee + (Since out of doubt a glass of beer elates thee), + Without that frightful peril to thy soul. + A glass of beer! go dip thine angry beak in it, + And straight its rage will melt to soft placidity, + That solace finding thou art wise to seek in it; + Ah, do not thou on this poor plea reject it, + That in thy inwards it will breed acidity-- + One glass of Stewart's brandy will correct it. + + P. A. + + + V. THE HELL HOLE. + + What daring genius first yclept thee Hell? + What high, poetic, awe-struck grand old Golfer, + Much more of a mythologist than scoffer! + Whoe'er he was, the name befits thee well. + "All hope abandon, ye who enter here," + Is written awful o'er thy gloomy jaws, + A threat to all save Allan might give pause: + And frequent from within come tones of fear-- + Dread sound of cleeks, which ever fall in vain, + And--for mere mortal patience is but scanty-- + Shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain, + Dire gnashings of the teeth, and horrid curses, + With which I need not decorate my verses, + Because, in fact, you'll find them all in Dante. + + P. A. + + + VI. THE HEATHER HOLE. + + Ah me! prodigious woes do still environ-- + To quote verbatim from some grave old poet-- + The man who needs must meddle with his _iron_; + And here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it. + For now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins, + Tilling some bunker, as if on a lease of it, + And so assiduous to make due increase of it; + Or wandering homeless through a world of whins! + And when, these perils past, thou seemest _dead_. + And hop'st a half--O woe, the ball goes crooked, + Making thy foe just one more hole ahead, + Surely a consummation all too sad, + Without that sneering devilish "Never lookit," + The parting comment of the opposing cad. + + P. A. + + + VII. THE HIGH OR EDEN HOLE. + + The shelly pit is cleared at one fell blow, + A stroke to be remembered in your dreams! + But here the Eden on your vision gleams, + Lovely, but treach'rous in its solemn flow. + The hole is perched aloft, too near the tide, + The green is small, and broken is the ground + Which doth that little charmed space surround! + Go not too far, and go not to a side; + Take the short spoon to do your second stroke; + Sandy entreats you will the wind take heed on, + For, oh, it would a very saint provoke, + If you should let your ball plump in the Eden. + You do your best, but who can fate control? + So here against you is another hole. + + R. C. Jr. + + + VIII. THE SHORT HOLE. + + Brief but not easy is the next adventure; + Legend avers it has been done in _one_, + Though such long _steals_ are now but rarely done-- + In _three_ 'twere well that you the hole should enter. + Strangely original is this bit of ground, + For, while at hand the smooth and smiling green, + One bunker wide and bushy yawns between, + Where Tyro's gutta is too often found. + Nervous your rival strikes and heels his ball-- + From that whin-bush at six he'll scarce extract it: + Yours, by no blunder this time counteracted, + Is with the grass-club lofted over all. + There goes a hole in your side--how you hug it! + Much as th' Australian digger does a nugget. + + R. C. Jr. + + + IX. THE END HOLE. + + The end, but not the end--the distance-post + That halves the game--a serious point to thee, + For if one more thou losest, 'twill be _three_: + Yet even in that case, think not all is lost. + Men four behind have been, on the return, + So favoured by Olympus, or by care, + That all their terrors vanished into air, + And caddies cried them _dormy_ at the burn! + I could quote proverbs, did I speak at random: + Full many a broken ship comes into port, + Full many a cause is gained at last resort, + But Golf impresses most, _Nil desperandum_. + Turn, then, my son, with two against, nor dread + To gain the winning-post with one ahead. + + R. C. Jr. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + + The following SCRAP relative to GOLF occurs in a very rare work + entitled _Westminster Drollery_, 12mo, 1671, p. 28. + + A Song called-- + + "And to each pretty lass + We will give a green gown." + + Thus all our life long we are frolick and gay, + And instead of Court revels we merrily play + At Trap, at Rules, and at Barly-break run, + At GOFF and at Foot-Ball; and when we have done + These innocent sports, we'll laugh and lie down, + And to each pretty lass + We will give a green gown. + + _N.B._--The above was copied from a book containing many + curious Scraps relating to Golfing, Archery, and Curling, + belonging to JAMES MAIDMENT, Esq., advocate. + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE GOLFER'S GARLAND.[10] + + + Of rural diversions, too long has the chase + All the honours usurped, and assumed the chief place; + But truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim, + That Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen, + And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green; + From vig'rous exertions our pleasures arise, + And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + O'er the green see our heroes in uniform clad, + In parties well matched how they gracefully spread, + Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal, + And with putt well directed plump into the hole. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + From exercise keen, from strength active and bold, + We traverse the green, and forget to grow old; + Blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care, + Are knock'd down by our balls as they whiz through the air. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + The strong-sinew'd son of Alcmena would drub, + And demolish a monster when armed with a club; + But what were the monsters which Hercules slew, + To those fiends which each week with our balls we subdue? + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame, + Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game: + A sport so distinguished the fair must approve; + So to Golf give the day and the evening to love. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + Our first standing toast we to Golfing assign, + No other amusement so truly divine; + It has charms for the aged, as well as the young, + Then as first of field sports let its praises be sung. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + And to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill, + A bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill; + Our charming instructresses--blessings attend them, + And cursed be the clown who would dare to offend them! + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + The next we shall drink to our friends far and near; + To the mem'ry of those who no longer appear, + Who have play'd their last round, and passed over that bourne + From which the best Golfer can never return. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + + Then fill up your glass, and let each social soul + Drink to the putter, the balls, and the hole; + And may every true Golfer invariably find + His opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind. + With a fal-the-ral-a, etc. + +[Footnote 10: From Mathieson's Poem "The Goff" 1743, with the exception +of the 5th verse, which was copied by a member of the Burgess Club from +a version of the song found on an old bookstall.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + THE LINKS O' INNERLEVEN. + + SUNG AT THE AUTUMN MEETING OF THE INNERLEVEN + GOLFING CLUB, 1841. + + TUNE--_Dainty Davie._ + + + Wha wad be free from doctor's bills-- + From trash o' powders and o' pills-- + Will find a cure for a' his ills + On the Links o' Innerleven. + For there whar lassies bleach their claes, + And bairnies toddle doun the braes, + The merry Golfer daily plays + On the Links o' Innerleven. + + Sae hie ye to the Golfer's ha', + And there, arranged alang the wa', + O' presses ye will see a raw, + At the Club o' Innerleven. + There from some friendly box ye'll draw + A club and second-handed ba',-- + A Gourlay pill's the best o' a' + For health at Innerleven. + + And though the Golfer's sport be keen, + Yet oft upon the putting-green + He'll rest to gaze upon the scene + That lies round Innerleven-- + To trace the steamboat's crumpled way + Through Largo's loch-like silvery bay, + Or to hear the hushing breakers play + On the beach o' Innerleven. + + When in the evening of my days, + I wish I could a cottage raise + Beneath the snugly-sheltering braes + O'erhanging Innerleven. + There in the plot before the door + I'd raise my vegetable store, + Or tug for supper at the oar + In the bay near Innerleven. + + But daily on thy matchless ground + I and my caddie would be found, + Describing still another round + On thy Links, sweet Innerleven! + Would I care then for fortune's rubs, + And a' their Kirk and State hubbubs, + While I could stump and swing my clubs + On the Links o' Innerleven? + + And when the e'ening grey sat doun, + I'd cast aside my tacket[11] shoon, + And crack o' putter, cleek, and spoon,[12] + Wi' a friend at Innerleven. + Syne o'er a glass o' Cameron Brig,[13] + A nightcap we would doucely swig, + Laughing at Conservative and Whig, + By the Links o' Innerleven. + +[Footnote 11: Golfers wear tacks in their shoes that they may stand firm +when they strike.] + +[Footnote 12: Names for different kinds of clubs.] + +[Footnote 13: The name of a noted distillery.] + + + + + [Decoration] + + IN PRAISE OF _GUTTA PERCHA_. + + (1856.) + + TUNE--_Dainty Davie._ + + + Of a' the changes that of late + Have shaken Europe's social state-- + Let wondering politicians prate, + And 'bout them mak a wark a'-- + A subject mair congenial here, + And dearer to a Golfer's ear + I sing--the change brought round last year + By balls of _Gutta Percha_! + + Tho' Gouf be of our games most rare, + Yet truth to speak, the tear and wear + O' balls was felt to be severe, + And source o' great vexation; + When Gourlay's balls cost half-a-croun, + And Allan's no a farthing doun, + The feck o's wad been harried soon, + In this era of taxation. + + But times are changed--we dinna care + Though we may ne'er drive leather mair, + Be't stuffed wi' feather or wi' hair-- + For noo we're independent. + At last a substance we hae got, + Frae which for scarce mair than a groat, + A ba' comes that can row and stot-- + A ba' the most transcendent. + + Hail, _Gutta Percha_, precious gum! + O'er Scotland's links lang may ye bum; + Some purse-proud billies haw and hum, + And say ye're douf at fleein'; + But let them try ye fairly out, + Wi' ony balls for days about, + Your merits they will loudly tout, + And own they hae been leein'. + + And noo that a' your praise is spent, + Ye'll listen to a friend's comment, + And kindlier tak on wi' paint, + Then ye wad be perfection. + And sure some scientific loon, + On Golfing will bestow a boon, + And gie ye a cosmetic soon, + And brighten your complexion. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + "FAR AND SURE!" + + BY THE LATE SHERIFF LOGAN. + + + "Far and sure! far and sure!" 'twas the cry of our fathers, + 'Twas a cry which their forefathers heard; + 'Tis the cry of their sons when the mustering gathers: + When we're gone may it still be the word. + + "Far and sure!" there is honour and hope in the sound; + Long over these Links may it roll! + It will--O it will! for each face around + Shows its magic is felt in each soul. + + Let it guide us in life; at the desk or the bar, + It will shield us from folly's gay lure; + Then, tho' rough be the course, and the winning post _far_, + We will carry the stakes--O be _sure_! + + Let it guide us in Golf, whether "Burgess" or "Star;" + At the last round let none look demure: + All Golfers are brothers when _driving_ is _far_, + When putting is canny and _sure_. + + "Far and sure! far and sure!" fill the bumper and drain it, + May our motto for ever endure; + May time never maim it, nor dishonour stain it; + Then drink, brothers, drink, "Far and sure!" + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + SONG. + + TUNE--_Scotland yet._ + + + Gae bring my guid auld clubs ance mair-- + Come, laddie, bring them fast, + For I maun hae anither game, + E'er the autumn season's past; + And trow ye as I play, my lads, + My song shall ever be, + "Auld Scotland's royal game o' Gouf-- + Our country's game for me." + Then here's a toast to Goufin' yet, + Wi' a' the honours three. + + Throw by that walloping surtout-- + On wi' my auld red jacket-- + Haul aff thae gripless Wellingtons + For yon shoon wi' mony a tacket. + Hang up that snoring Albert hat-- + Yon foraging-cap for me; + And now a Golfer I walk forth, + Frae worldly care set free. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + Now, laddie, pouch thae Gourlay ba's, + Wi' joy they'll dance a reel-- + My play-club capers in my hand, + As supple as an eel. + And see! my partner's on the green, + His ba' upon the tee-- + Impatient, round he swings his club, + Making heads o' gowans flee. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + How sweet's the air upon the links + That stretch along the sea! + Where, bending down white clover heads. + In silence sips the bee. + Our steps how light! as on we speed + O'er buoyant knowes o' balm, + To where our balls in distance lie, + Like mushrooms on the lawn. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + And 'tween each stroke how socially + Abreast in crack we go, + And shape o' club and mak o' ba' + Discuss wi' sportsman's glow. + Then hale-lung'd laughter peals aloud, + And banter stingless flies, + And tears o' mirth astonished run + From sad dyspeptics' eyes. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + And when some rounds demand a rest, + And appetite is keen, + How sweet to taste the Golfer's fare, + Reclining on the green! + Ne'er aldermen at turtle feast + Washed over with champagne, + Rejoiced like us, as baps we tear, + And jugs o' "Berwick's" drain. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + Our caddies at our feet reclined, + Their sheaves o' clubs at rest-- + Happy to hear the Golfers' lore, + Chew on wi' silent zest. + But up, like giants flushed with wine, + Again our clubs we wield-- + We feel new vigour in our arms, + And ardent take the field. + Then here's a toast, etc. + + Thus on we've toiled at Dubbieside, + But 'neath the Lomond hill + The sun has sunk, and the whirling din + Has ceased at Kirkland Mill. + The sand-eel crowd is thickening black + By the mouth o' Leven stream, + And the wearied _Tar_ in Largo Bay + Lets off the roaring _steam_. + So here's a toast, etc. + + So here's a health to our ain club, + St. Andrews next, our mither-- + A bumper to Dunbarnie next, + Our neibour and our brither: + Auld Dubbieside salutes ye a'; + And if you wish to meet her, + You'll find her ready at a ca', + Wi' her gallant captain PETER. + So here's a toast, etc. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + A GOLFING SONG. + + BY MR. JAMES BALLANTINE. + + TUNE--_Let Haughty Gaul._ + + + Come, leave your dingy desks and shops. + Ye sons of ancient Reekie, + And by green fields and sunny slopes, + For healthy pastime seek ye. + Don't bounce about your "_dogs of war_," + Nor at our _shinties_ scoff, boys, + But learn our motto, "_Sure and Far_," + Then come and play at Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds of Bruntsfield Links will chase + All murky vapours off, boys; + And nothing can your sinews brace + Like the glorious game of Golf, boys. + + Above our head the clear blue sky, + We bound the gowan'd sward o'er, + And as our balls fly far and high, + Our bosoms glow with ardour; + While dear Edina, Scotland's Queen, + Her misty cap lifts off, boys, + And smiles serenely on the green, + Graced by the game of Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + We putt, we drive, we laugh, we chat, + Our strokes and jokes aye clinking, + We banish all extraneous fat, + And all extraneous thinking. + We'll cure you of a summer cold, + Or of a winter cough, boys, + We'll make you young, even when you're old, + So come and play at Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + When in the dumps with mulligrubs, + Or doyte with barley-bree, boys, + Go get you of the green three rubs, + 'Twill set you on the "_Tee_," boys. + There's no disease we cannot cure, + No care we cannot doff, boys; + Our aim is ever "_Far and Sure_"-- + So come and play at Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + O blessings on pure cauler air, + And every healthy sport, boys, + That makes sweet Nature seem more fair, + And makes long life seem short, boys; + That warms your hearts with genial glow, + And makes you halve your loaf, boys, + With every needy child of woe-- + So bless the game of Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + Then don your brilliant scarlet coats, + With your bright blue velvet caps, boys. + And some shall play the _rocket shots_ + And some the _putting paps_, boys. + No son of Scotland, man or boy, + Shall e'er become an oaf, boys, + Who gathers friendship, health, and joy, + In playing at the Golf, boys. + _Chorus_--Three rounds, etc. + + [Decoration] + + + + + [Decoration] + + GOLFING SONG. + + TUNE--_Clean Pease Strae._ + + + When Tom and me were laddies, + Oor pastimes were but sma'-- + A game at common shinty, + Or playin' at the ba'; + But lang since then a game we ken, + Enticin' great and sma': + A king I ween aroun' Leith green + Has often gowff'd the ba'. + + Wi' glorious Gowff brave Scotia's game, + Oor youth comes back ance mair, + When, swift and free as birds on wing, + Oor balls fly through the air. + The rays o' fortune's golden star + Most earthly ills can cure; + Gowff helps to keep the others "_far_," + Or makes their absence "_sure_." + + When ice is keen the curlin' steen + Wi' birr gaes straught awa', + And cricket on the meadow green, + Seems manly, brisk, and braw; + But, laddie, tak a club in han', + Then tee and drive the ba'; + Ye'll find the royal game o' Gowff + Is better than them a'. + + Oor volunteers wi' guns and spears + Keep foreign foes in awe; + Noo Britain's youth shield north an' south, + Laigh cot and stately ha'; + Sae ne'er a foe shall Scotland fear + While Scotland's game we play, + Though we should leave the _puttin'_ green + To buckle for the fray. + + [Decoration] + + + _Printed by_ R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_. + + * * * * * + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small caps are indicated by ALL +CAPS. + +[Decoration]s are predominantly intertwined animals in the Celtic style, +used to mark the beginning or end of a canto or poem. + +Dialect and archaic spelling abound in the original and are retained +here. Variations in hyphenation, punctuation, and use of accents appear +as in the original, except as noted below. + + Page vii: added comma (DRYSDALE,) + Page 10: _this_ to this (_Pygmalion_ this stout arm) + Page 10: spelling retained from original (Goliah's spear) + Page 37: hyphen removed before "and" (_Electro-Talbot_ and) + Page 69: "bouyant" to "buoyant" (O'er buoyant knowes) + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Poems on Golf, by Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS ON GOLF *** + +***** This file should be named 37323.txt or 37323.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/7/3/2/37323/ + +Produced by C.S. 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