Poems on Golf

by Unknown

III. THE THIRD HOLE.

No rest in Golf—still perils in the path:
Here, playing a good ball, perhaps it goes
Gently into the Principalian Nose,
Or else Tam's Coo, which equally is death.
Perhaps the wind will catch it in mid-air,
And take it to the Whins—"Look out, look out!
Tom Morris, be, oh be, a faithful scout!"
But Tom, though links-eyed, finds not anywhere.
Such thy mishaps, O Merit: feeble balls
Meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green;
'Tis well, my friends, if you, when this befalls,
Can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen.
It only shows the ancient proverb's force,
That you may further go and fare the worse.

R. C.