Still on the green Clanranald's chief appears,
As gay as ever, as untouch'd by years;
He laughs at Time, and Time, perhaps through whim,
Respects his nonchalance, and laughs at him;
Just fans him with his wings, but spares his head,
As loth to lose a subject so well bred.
Sir Ralph returns—he has been absent long—
No less renown'd in Golfing than in song;
With continental learning richly stored,
Teutonic Bards translated and explored;
A literaire—a German scholar now,
With all Griselda's honours on his brow!
The Links have still the pleasure to behold
Messieux, complete in matches, as of old;
He, modest, tells you that his day's gone by:
If any think it is so—let them try!
Still portly William Wood is to be seen,
As good as ever on the velvet green,
The same unfailing trump; but John, methinks,
Has taken to the Turf, and shies the Links.
Whether the Leger and the Derby pay
As well as Hope Grant, I can scarcely say;
But let that be—'tis better, John, old fellow,
To pluck the rooks, than rook the violoncello.
Permit me just a moment to digress—
Friendship would chide me should I venture less—
The poor Chinese, there cannot be a doubt,
Will shortly be demolish'd out and out;
But—O how blest beyond the common line
Of conquer'd nations by the Power divine!—
Saltoun to cut their yellow throats, and then
Hope Grant to play their requiem-notes—Amen!
Still George Moncrieffe appears the crowd before,
Lieutenant-Colonel—Captain now no more;
Improv'd in ev'rything—in looks and life,
And, more than all, the husband of a wife!
As in the olden time, see Craigie Halkett—
Wild strokes and swiping, jest, and fun, and rackett;
He leaves us now. But in three years, I trust,
He will return, and sport his muzzle dust,
Play Golf again, and patronise all cheer,
From noble Claret down to bitter beer.
Mount-Melville still erect as ever stands,
And plies his club with energetic hands,
Plays short and steady, often is a winner—
A better Captain never graced a dinner.
But where is Oliphant, that artist grand?
He scarce appears among the Golfing band.
No doubt he's married; but when that befalls
Is there an end to putters, clubs, and balls?
Not so, methinks: Sir David Baird can play
With any Golfer of the present day;
The Laird of Lingo, Major Bob Anstruther—
Both married, and the one as good's the other.
Dalgleish and Haig, two better men to play
You scarce will meet upon a summer's day;
Alike correct, whatever may befall,
Swipe, iron, putter, quarter-stroke, and all.