THE GOLF WIDOWS
(After E.B. Browning)
By the side of the sounding sea;
Do you hear the widows weeping, O my brothers,
Wedded but a few brief years?
They are writing home complaining to their mothers,
And their ink's suffused with tears.
The young lads are playing in the meadows,
The young babes are sleeping in the nest;
The young men are flirting in the shadows,
The young maids are helping them, with zest.
But the young golf widows, O my brothers,
Are weeping bitterly,
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
While you're swiping from the tee.
Do you ask their grazing widows in their sorrow
Why their tears are falling so?
"Oh—yesterday—to-day again—to-morrow—
To the links you always go!
Your golf 'shop,'" they say, "is very dreary,
You speak of nothing else from week to week;
A really patient wife will grow a-weary
Of talk about a concentrated cleek."
Yes, the young golf widows, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they weep?
They are longing to be back beside their mothers,
While you're playing in a sweep.
And well may the widows weep before you
When your nightly round is done;
They care nothing for a stymie, or the glory
Gained by holing out in one.
"How long," they say, "how long in careless fashion
Will you stand, to drive the Dyke, upon our hearts,
Trample down with nailèd heel our early passion,
Turning homeward only when the light departs?
You can hear our lamentations many a mile hence,
Can you hearken without shame,
When our mourning curseth deeper in the silence
Than a strong man off his game?"
"A BEAUTIFUL DRIVE."
"—— HE WOULD HAVE SAID"
A beautiful stroke missed! A favourite club broken! No words to bring relief!
American Friend (in the background, after a long pause). "Wa'al, Brown, I guess that's the most profane silence I've ever listened to!"
Subtle.—"Aren't you a little off your game this morning, Mr. Smythe?"
"Oh, I'm not playing this morning, Miss Bertha. Only just amusing myself."