  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 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 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: 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; 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! Whiz goes the chief—a sneezer, "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." Clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods! "A most disgusting steal; 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." 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, 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 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." Particularly, "scoundrels"—"at the devil!" Now Baird and Clan in turn strike off and play 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! |
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