“ Men play the game, the boys the clubs convey,
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. ”

“ The hole is perched aloft, too near the tide,
The green is small, and broken is the ground
Which doth that little charmed space surround!
Go not too far, and go not to a side;
Take the short spoon to do your second stroke;
Sandy entreats you will the wind take heed on,
For, oh, it would a very saint provoke,
If you should let your ball plump in the Eden.
You do your best, but who can fate control?
So here against you is another hole.
R. C. Jr.
VIII. THE SHORT HOLE.
Brief but not easy is the next adventure ”

“ 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. ”

“ Meanwhile the chiefs for the last hole contend,
The last great hole, which should their labours end;
For this the chiefs exert their skill and might,
To drive the balls, and to direct their flight.
Thus two fleet coursers for the Royal plate
(The others distanc'd) run the final heat;
With all his might each gen'rous racer flies,
And all his art each panting rider tries,
While show'rs of gold and praises warm his breast,
And gen'rous emulation fires the beast.
His trusty club Pygmalion dauntless plies:
The ball ambitious climbs the lofty skies ”

“ Than the abbots, the monks, or the zealots who sung them:
We have red coats and bonnets, we've putters and clubs;
The green has its bunkers, its hazards, and rubs;
At the long hole across we have biscuits and beer,
And the Hebes who sell it give zest to the cheer:
If this make not up for the pomp and the splendour
Of mitres, and murders, and mass—we'll surrender;
[21] If Goffers and caddies be not better neighbours
Than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres,
Let such fancies remain with the fool who so thinks,
While we toast old St. Andrews, its Goffers and Links. ”

“ 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! ”

“ Th' unwearied heroes toiling on the field:
[14] The light-foot fairies in their labours share,
Each nymph her hero seconds in the war;
Pygmalion and Gambolia there appear,
And Verdurilla with Castalio here.
The Goddess saw, and op'd the book of Fate,
To search the issue of the grand debate.
Bright silver plates the sacred leaves enfold,
Bound with twelve shining clasps of solid gold.
The wond'rous book contains the fate of all
That lift the club, and strike the missive ball;
Mysterious rhymes, that thro' the pages flow,
The past, the present, and the future show. ”

“ 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 [7]
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 ”

“ As long a ball as any man alive!
That's Major Playfair, a man of nerve unshaken—
He knows a thing or two, or I'm mistaken;
And when he's press'd, can play a tearing game,
He works for certainty and not for Fame!
There's none—I'll back the assertion with a wager—
Can play the heavy iron like the Major.
Next him is Craigie Halkett, one who can
Swipe out, for distance, against any man ”

“ Rattray for skill, and Corse for strength renown'd,
Stewart and Lesly beat the sandy ground,
And Brown and Alston, Chiefs well known to fame,
And numbers more the Muse forbears to name.
Gigantic Biggar here full oft is seen,
Like huge behemoth on an Indian green;
His bulk enormous scarce can 'scape the eyes,
Amaz'd spectators wonder how he plies.
Yea, here great Forbes, [1] patron of the just,
The dread of villains and the good man's trust,
[3] When spent with toils in serving human kind,
His body recreates, and unbends his mind. ”

“ But truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim,
That Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame.
With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen,
And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green;
From vig'rous exertions our pleasures arise,
And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies.
With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
[58]
O'er the green see our heroes in uniform clad,
In parties well matched how they gracefully spread,
Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal,
And with putt well directed plump into the hole. ”

“ His Golf is better than his evening play:
That must be scandal; for I am sure that none
Could think of Golf before the rise of sun.
He now is talking to his lady's brother,
A man of politics, Sir Ralph Anstruther:
Were he but once in Parliament, methinks,
And working there as well as on the Links,
The burghs, I'll be bound, would not repent them
That they had such a man to represent them:
[35] There's one thing only—when he's on the roll,
He must not lose his nerve, as when he's near the hole. ”

“ 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! [3]
Whiz goes the chief—a sneezer, [4] by Old Harry!
"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."
[26] Now, near the hole Sir David plays the odds;
Clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods!
"A most disgusting steal; [5] well, come away,
They're one ahead, but we have four to play. ”

“ 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 ”

“ Andrews Links,
He might have been prime minister, or priest,
My lord, or plain Sir David at the least!
Now, to the ground of Golf my muse shall fly,
The various men assembled to descry,
Nine-tenths of whom, throughout the rolling year,
At the first hole unfailingly appear;
Where, "How d'ye do?" "Fine morning," "Rainy day,"
And, "What's the match?" are preludes to the play.
So full the meeting that I scarcely can,
In such a crowd, distinguish man from man.
We'll take them as they come:—He next the wall,
[31] Outside, upon the right, is Mr. Saddell ”

“ 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,
[27] And they at six ”

“ But near the hole displays the greatest art.
There young Patullo stands, and he, methinks,
Can drive the longest ball upon the Links;
And well he plays the spoon and iron, but
He fails a little when he comes to putt.
[33] Near Captain Cheape, a sailor by profession
(But not so good at Golf as navigation) ,
Is Mr. Peter Glass, who once could play
A better game than he can do to-day.
We cannot last for ever! and the gout,
Confirmed, is wondrous apt to put us out.
There, to the left, I see Mount-Melville stand
Erect, his driving putter in his hand ”

“ Reclining on the green!
Ne'er aldermen at turtle feast
Washed over with champagne,
Rejoiced like us, as baps we tear,
And jugs o' "Berwick's" drain.
Then here's a toast, etc.
[71]
Our caddies at our feet reclined,
Their sheaves o' clubs at rest—
Happy to hear the Golfers' lore,
Chew on wi' silent zest.
But up, like giants flushed with wine,
Again our clubs we wield—
We feel new vigour in our arms,
And ardent take the field. ”

“ In most majestic strain; let others dwell
On such, and rack their carnal brains to tell
A tale of sensuality!—Farewell!
[2] Hell is a range of broken ground on St. Andrews Links, bearing probably the same proportion to the ordinary course of the Links as hell would to heaven in the opinion of these immortals.
[3] A place on North Berwick Links, so awkward, that in playing out of it one is allowed to remove everything, provided the position of the ball is not altered.
[4] A long and scientific stroke at golf.
[5] Steal, the act of holing the ball contrary to probability. ”

“ 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—
[39] The poor Chinese, there cannot be a doubt,
Will shortly be demolish'd out and out ”

“ Fifth hole.
[8] Sixth hole.
THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS ON A CROWDED DAY. Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit.—Æn. i. l. 208.
'Tis morn! and man awakes, by sleep refresh'd,
To do whate'er he has to do with zest;
But at St. Andrews, where my scene is laid,
One only thought can enter every head;
The thought of Golf, to wit—and that engages
Men of all sizes, tempers, ranks, and ages;
The root—the primum mobile of all,
The epidemic of the club and ball ”

“ And plies his club with energetic hands,
Plays short and steady, often is a winner—
A better Captain never graced a dinner.
[40]
But where is Oliphant, that artist grand?
He scarce appears among the Golfing band. ”