“I’m of my game,” the golfer said,
And shook his locks in woe;
“My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I’m in the burn, I’m in the sand—
I’m off my game!
“Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
I’m off my game!
“Why is it that I play at all?
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
I’m off my game!
“I hate the sight of all my set,
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting’s wild or tame;
It’s really time for me to stop—
I’m off my game!”
The Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting.
Oh blessed be the cart that takes
Away my books, my curse, my clog,
Blessed the auctioneer who makes
Their inefficient catalogue.
Blessed the purchasers who pay
However little—less were fit—
Blessed the rooms, the rainy day,
The knock-out and the end of it.
For I am weary of the sport,
That seemed a while agone so sweet,
Of Elzevirs an inch too short,
And First Editions—incomplete.
Weary of crests and coats of arms,
“Attributed to Padeloup”
The sham Deromes have lost their charms,
The things Le Gascon did not do.
I never read the catalogues
Of rubbish that come thick as rooks,
But most I loathe the dreary dogs
That write in prose, or worse, on books.