Chapter I: TELL you this--When, after youth was past,

A kindly Heav'n gave me to Golf at last; No Freedom but I gladly barter'd for The satisfying Bond that holds me fast.

LIV

AND this I know: there is a Charm about
The quiet State of Golf, tho' fools may flout,
That with its magic has unlock'd the Door
Of Happiness they only howl without.

* * * * *

LV

AS under cover of departing Day
Slinks the defeated Duffer on his way,
Once more within the Maker's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Tools of Play.

LVI

CLUBS of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some old batter'd Veterans were; and some
Had swung perhaps, but never driv'n at all.

LVII

SAID one among them--"Surely not for naught
Tom Morris fashion'd me with anxious thought,
Has not my Form won many a Match and Cup?
And yet--and yet--I am no longer bought."

LVIII

THEN said a Second--"Hear the Codger croak!
Sure he would make of Golf an ancient Joke;
But Me--just think! a modern Willie Park,
My fickle Owner cannot sell nor soak!"

LIX

AFTER a momentary silence spake
A Brassie of a more ungainly make--
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
Well, then, I ask who won the last Sweepstake?"

LX

WHEREAT some one of the loquacious Lot,
I think a putting Niblick, or if not,
A driving Putter, or a goose-neck'd Cleek--
"Pray, what is Golf then,--and the Golfer what?"

LXI

"WHY," said another, "Some there are who say
That Golf is but a Game that Golfers play,
And some that Life is but a mighty Green,
And Golf the Art to use it day by day."

LXII

"WELL," murmur'd one, "let whoso make or buy,
All in one Pickle we--like as we lie:
For let the right Good-Fellow come along,
We all may lay the Ball dead by and by."

LXIII

SO one and one and one I heard them speak:
"Ah, Friends," said I, "'tis not a Make we seek,
A Duffer arm'd with all the Clubs there be--
What is he to a Player with a Cleek?"

* * * * *

LXIV

LATELY, agape beside the door of Fame,
Sudden a Touch upon my shoulder came,
And thro' the Dusk an Angel Shape held out
The greater Guerdon; and it was--the Game!

LXV

THE Game that can with Logic absolute
The Dronings of the Soberheads confute,
Silence the scoffing ones, and in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute.

LXVI

INDEED, the brave Game I have loved so well
Has little taught me how to buy or sell;
Has pawn'd my Greatness for an Hour of Ease,
And barter'd cold Cash for--a Miracle.

LXVII

INDEED, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore--but it was Winter when I swore,
And then and then came Spring, and Club-in-hand
I hasten'd forth for one Round--one Round more.

LXVIII

BUT much as Golf has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my worldly Profit--Well,
I often wonder what the Grubbers earn
One half so precious as the Joy they sell.

LXIX

WHAT! for a senseless Bank-Account to wreak
Their manly Strength on Ledgers, till too weak
To swing a club?--So Caddies calmly tread
In Mire the Ball Heav'n sent them here to seek.

LXX

WHAT! as a poor dull Drudge to waste the Force
That might have made a Golfer, till the Source
Of Golf be dried--and Life grow all too brief
To top a Ball around the Ladies' Course!

LXXI

YET, ah, that Golf should vanish with the green!
What noble matches Winter might have seen;
And in Old Age what glorious Hazards foil'd,
What Zest of painful Pleasures might have been!

LXXII

WOULD but the dim Face of old Winter yield
One glimpse of green, like Youth to Age reveal'd,
Thro' which once more the failing Limbs might spring
As springs the trampled Herbage of the Field.

LXXIII

AH! with the Green my fading life provide,
Some ancient golfing Crony by my side:
Content to play one Round, or, meeker still,
To mix a gentle Foursome satisfied.

LXXIV

THAT even the wavering Remnant of the Swing
May bear some witness to my virtuous Spring,
And leave no True-believer passing-by
Unedified by its Admonishing.

LXXV

WOULD but the god of Golfers ere too late
Arrest the sure-advancing step of Fate,
What matter if we play the Odd or Like?
Or--if we play--hole out in Four or Eight?

LXXVI

AH, let the Honor go to Fate, and let
All difficulties by that Crack be met;
The Duffer still may win a Half or two,
Content while Fate is only Dormie yet.

LXXVII

OR if ev'n this be taken, you and I
May still fare onward calmly, honestly,
Nor care how many Down the Record stand:
The Match is over--Let us play the Bye!

LXXVIII

YON rising Moon that leads us Home again,
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising wait for us
At this same Turning--and for _One_ in vain.

LXXIX

AND when, like her, my Golfer, I have been
And am no more above the pleasant Green,
And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole
I made in One--ah! pay my Forfeit then!

TAMAM