Poems on Golf Part 2

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: h.e.l.l is a range of broken ground on St. Andrews Links, bearing probably the same proportion to the _ordinary_ course of the Links as h.e.l.l 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 a.s.sembled 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 Clanra.n.a.ld'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 a.s.sertion 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 Gla.s.s, 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 c.o.c.k, and seems to me To win or lose with equal ecstasy.

Here's Mr. Messieux, he's a n.o.ble 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 surpa.s.s'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 b.a.l.l.s, 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s, And still his putting nothing can surpa.s.s-- 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 Clanra.n.a.ld'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 n.o.ble _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.