  (A Golf-match has recently been played at Bushey by night.) Not in the noontide's horrid glare When nervousness and lunch combined And James's shoes and well-oiled hair Perturb me, but when Cynthia fair In heaven is shrined, I show my perfect form, and play Big brassie-shots like Edward Ray. By night I am plus four. By day—— Well, never mind. With elfin stance I stride the tee And deal my orb an amorous slap In the mid-moonshine's mystery, And Puck preserves the stroke for me From foul mishap; Pan saves me from the casual pot And Dryad nymphs upbear my shot Outstripping James's (James has got No soul, poor chap). The little pixies of the wood Come thronging round him while he putts; They do his game no kind of good But many an unseen toadstool-hood Their craft unshuts; They turn his eye-balls to and fro And make marsh-lanterns round him glow; He is all off, whilst I am—oh! One of the nuts. The gossips by the club-room fire Applaud my game with constant din: "Approach-work never was so dire, No mashies on this earth expire So near the tin; You ought to watch his tee-shots whizz At number nine. Hot stuff he is. The captain's lunar vase is his, If he goes in." And so I do. My argent sphere Goes speeding through the night's opaque; No hazards of the sand I fear, The heavenly huntress keeps me clear Of thorn and brake; Not Dionysus' spotted ounce More featly on the sward may bounce; I hover like a hawk at pounce, Putt out——and wake. Evoe. Spring Fashions. "A waistcoat of tan and a limp lawn collar flowing over the shoulders make a good suit." |
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