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 Bra.s.sie 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 trans.m.u.te.

LXVI

INDEED, the brave Game I have loved so well Has little taught me how to buy or sell; Has p.a.w.n'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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sing-by Unedified by its Admonishing.

LXXV

WOULD but the G.o.d 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.