  Alter erit tum Typhys, et altera quÆ vehat Argo 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; 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— 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; 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, 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; 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; 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— 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: 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! |
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