Come, George, give your clubs and your Haskells a rest, man:

You can't spend the whole of your lifetime in golf;

If it pleases your pride I'll admit you're the best man

That ever wore scarlet or teed a ball off;

I'll allow they can't match you in swinging or driving,

That your shots are as long as they always are true,

And I'll grant that what others effect after striving

For years on the green comes by nature to you.

But the sun's in the sky, and the leaves are a-shiver

With a soft bit of breeze that is cool to the brow;

And I seem to remember a jolly old river

Which is smiling all over—I think you know how.

There are whispers of welcome from rushes and sedge there,

There's a blaze of laburnum and lilac and may;

There are lawns of close grass sloping down to the edge there;

You can lie there and lounge there and dream there to-day.

There are great spreading chestnuts all ranged in their arches

With their pinnacled blossoms so pink and so white;

There are rugged old oaks, there are tender young larches,

There are willows, cool willows, to chequer the light.

Each tree seems to ask you to come and be shaded—

It's a way they all have, these adorable trees—

And the leaves all invite you to float down unaided

In your broad-bottomed punt and to rest at your ease.

And then, when we're tired of the dolce far niente,

We'll remember our skill in the grandest of sports,

Imagine we're back at the great age of twenty,

And change our long clothes for a zephyr and shorts.

And so, with a zest that no time can diminish,

We will sit in our boat and get forward and dare,

As we grip the beginning and hold out the finish,

To smite the Thames furrows afloat in a pair.