VI. THE HEATHER HOLE.
Ah me! prodigious woes do still environ—
To quote verbatim from some grave old poet—
The man who needs must meddle with his iron;
And here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it.
For now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins,
Tilling some bunker, as if on a lease of it,
And so assiduous to make due increase of it;
Or wandering homeless through a world of whins!
And when, these perils past, thou seemest dead.
And hop'st a half—O woe, the ball goes crooked,
Making thy foe just one more hole ahead,
Surely a consummation all too sad,
Without that sneering devilish "Never lookit,"
The parting comment of the opposing cad.