THE LINKS
'Tis a brilliant autumn day,
And the breeze has blown away
All the clouds that lowered gray;
So methinks,
As I've half an hour to spare,
I will go and take the air,
While the weather still is fair,
On the Links.
I admire the splendid view,
The delicious azure hue
Of the ocean and—when, whew!
With a crack,
Lo! there drops a little ball
Which elects to break its fall
By alighting on the small
Of my back.
In the distance someone cries
Some remark about my eyes,
None too pleasant, I surmise,
From the tone;
So away my steps I turn
Till a figure I discern,
Who is mouching by the burn
All alone.
He has lost a new "Eclipse,"
And a little word that slips
From his sulky-looking lips
Tells me true
That, besides the missing ball,
Which is gone beyond recall,
He has lost—what's worst of all—
Temper, too.
I conclude it will be best
If I leave him unaddressed,
Such a melancholy quest
To pursue;
And I pass to where I spy
Clouds of sand uprising high
Till they all but hide the sky
From the view.
They proceed, I understand,
From a bunker full of sand,
Where a golfer, club in hand,
Freely swears
As he hacks with all his might,
Till his countenance is quite
As vermilion as the bright
Coat he wears.
I observe him for a while
With a highly-tickled smile,
For it is the queerest style
Ever seen:
He is very short and stout,
And he knocks the ball about,
But he never gets it out
On the green.
Still I watch him chop and hack,
Till I hear a sudden crack,
And the club-head makes a track
In the light—
There's a startled cry of "FORE!"
As it flies, and all is o'er!—
I remember nothing more
Till to-night,
When I find myself in bed
With a lump upon my head
Like a penny loaf of bread;
And methinks,
For the future I'll take care
When I want a little air,
That I won't go anywhere
Near the Links.
THE MISERIES OF A VERY AMATEUR GOLFER
He is very shy, and unfortunately has to drive off in front of the lady champion and a large gallery. He makes a tremendous effort. The ball travels at least five yards!
Golfer. "And what's your name?"
Caddie. "They ca' me 'breeks, but ma maiden name is Christy."
"Mummy, what's that man for?"
Distinction without Difference.—Sensitive Golfer (who has foozled). "Did you laugh at me, boy?"
Caddie. "No, sir; I wis laughin' at anither man."
Sensitive Golfer. "And what's funny about him?"
Caddie. "He plays gowf awfu' like you, sir!"
Jones cannot see his ball anywhere, although he is positive it fell about there somewhere.
NEVER HAVE A CADDIE WITH A SQUINT!
(A Lay of the Links)
They told me he was skilful, and assiduous, and true,
They told me he had "carried" for the bravest and the best.
His hair was soldier-scarlet, and his eyes were saucer blue,
And one seemed looking eastward, whilst the other fronted west.
His strabismus was a startler, and it shook my nerve at once;
It affected me with dizziness, like gazing from a height.
I straddled like a duffer, and I wavered like a dunce,
And my right hand felt a left one, and my left felt far from right.
As I watched him place my ball with his visual axes crossed,
The very sunshine glimmered, with a queer confusing glint,
I felt like a sick lubber on Atlantic surges tossed—
Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
I'm an "irritable duffer"—so my enemies declare,—
That is I'm very sensitive, and play a modest game.
A very little puts me off my stroke, and, standing there,
With his boot-heels at right angles, and his optics much the same,
He maddened me—no less, and I felt that all success
Against bumptious young McBungo—was impossible that day.
I'd have parted with a fiver to have beaten him. His dress
Was so very very swagger, and his scarlet cap so gay.
He eyed my cross-eyed caddie with a supercilious smirk,
I tried to set my features, and my nerves, like any flint;
But my "knicker'd" knees were knocking as I wildly set to work.
Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
I tried to look away from the spoiler of my play,
But for fiendish fascination he was like a squinting snake;
All the muffings man can muff I contrived to muff that day;
My eyes were all askew and my nerves were all ashake.
I seemed to squint myself, and not only with my eyes,
My knees, my hands, my elbows, with obliquity were rife.
McBungo's sleek sham sympathy and sinister surprise
Made almost insupportable the burden of my life.
He was so beastly friendly, and he was so blazing fair,
So fulsomely effusive with suggestion, tip, and hint!
And all the while that caddie stood serenely cock-eyed there.
Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
Miss Binks was looking on! On that maiden I was gone,
Just as she was gone on golf, in perfervid Scottish style.
On my merits with McBungo I should just about have won,
But my shots to-day were such as made even Effie smile;
Oh, the lumps of turf I lifted! Oh, the easy balls I missed!
Oh, the bunkers I got bogged in! And at last a gentle scorn
Curled the lips I would have given my pet "Putter" to have kissed.
Such a bungler as myself her loved links had never borne;
And all the while McBungo—the young crocodile!—bewailed
What he called my "beastly luck," though his joy was plain as print,
Whilst that squint grew worse and worse at each shot of mine which failed.
Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
In "playing through the green" with my "brassie" I was seen
At most dismal disadvantage on that miserable day;
He pointed through the rushes with cock-eyed, sardonic spleen,—
I followed his squint guidance, and I struck a yard away;
But, oh! 'twas worst of all, when I tried to hole the ball.
Oh, the ogre! How he squinted at that crisis of the game!
His hideous strabismus held me helpless, a blind thrall
Shattered my nerves completely, put my skill to open shame.
That squint would, I am sure, have upset the solar system—
Oho! the impish impudence, the gruesome goggle-glint!
The low, malicious chuckle, as he softly muttered, "Missed 'im!"
No, never have a caddie with a squint!
Yet all the same McBungo did not get that rich Miss Binks,
Who was so sweet in every way, especially on golf.
He fancied he had cut me out that day upon those links,
But although he won the game—at golf, his love-game came not off.
He and that demon caddie tried between them very hard
To shame me in the eyes of that dear enthusiast,
But—well, my clubs she carries, whilst McBungo, evil-starred,
Was caught by a Scotch vixen with an obvious optic cast!
That's Nemesis, I say! And she will not let him play
At the game he so adores. True she's wealthy as the Mint.
At golf, with Effie, I have passed many a happy day,
But—we never have a caddie with a squint!
A caddie who's a duffer, or a caddie who gets drunk;
A caddie who regards all other caddies as his foes;
A caddie who will snigger when you fumble, fail or funk;
A caddie who will whistle, or seems ever on the doze;
A caddie who's too tiny, or too big and broad of bulk;
A caddie who gets playing with your clubs upon the sly;
A caddie who will chatter, or a caddie who will sulk;
All these are calculated a golf devotee to try;
All these are most vexatious to a golfer of repute;
And still more so to a novice. But just take a friendly hint!
Take a caddie who's a duffer, or a drunkard, or a brute,
But never try a caddie with a squint!!!
Another Lenten Sacrifice.—Golf Caddie (to Curate). "High tee, sir?"
Curate. "No; put it on the ground. I give up sand during Lent."
Voice from the Hill. "Now then, you young coward, don't stand about all day. Why don't you take it away from the dog?"
Boy (to young lady, who has been unfortunate enough to upset Colonel Bunker). "You'd better ride on before 'e gets 'is breath, miss!"
Young Lady. "Why?"
Boy. "I've 'eard 'im play golf!!!"