Poems on Golf

by Unknown

Old Robert Lindsay plays a decent game,
Tho' not a Golfer of enormous fame.
Well can he fish with minnow as with fly,
Paint, and play farthing-brag uncommonly;
Give jolly dinners, justice courts attend—
A good companion and a steady friend.

But Cuttlehill, that wonderful buffoon,
We meet him now no more, as wont, at noon;
No more along the green his jokes are heard,
And some who dared not then, now take the word.
Farewell! facetious Jem—too surely gone—
A loss to us—Joe Miller to Boulogne.

Poor Peter Glass, a worthy soul and blue,
Has paid the debt of nature—'tis too true!
Long did his candle flicker with the gout—
One puff, a little stronger, blew it out.
And good Patullo! he who drove as none,
Since him, have driven—he is also gone!
And Captain Cheape—who does not mourn the day
That snatch'd so good, so kind a friend away?
One more I name—and only one—but he
Was older far, and lower in degree—
Great Davie Robertson, the eldest cad,
In whom the good was stronger than the bad;
He sleeps in death! and with him sleeps a skill
Which Davie, statesmanlike, could wield at will!
Sound be his slumbers! yet if he should wake
In worlds where Golf is play'd, himself he'd shake,
And look about, and tell each young beginner,
"I'll gie half-ane—nae mair, as I'm a sinner."
He leaves a son, and Allan is his name,
In Golfing far beyond his father's fame;
Tho' in diplomacy, I shrewdly guess,
His skill's inferior, and his fame is less.

Now for the mushrooms—old, perchance, or new—
But whom my former strain did not review:
I'll name an old one, Patton, Tom, of Perth,
Short, stout, grey-headed, but of sterling worth!
A Golfer perfect—something, it may be,
The worse for wear, but few so true as he;
Good-humour'd when behind as when ahead,
And drinks like blazes till he goes to bed.
His friend is Peddie, not an awful swiper,
But at the putting he's a very viper:
Give him a man to drive him through the green,
And he'll be bad to beat, it will be seen—
Patton and Peddie—Peddie and Patton,
Are just the people one should bet upon.

There Keith with Andrew Wauchope works away,
And most respectable the game they play;
The navy Captain's steadiness and age
Give him, perhaps, the pull—but I'll engage,
Ere some few months, or rather weeks, are fled,
Youth and activity will take the lead.

See Gilmour next—and he can drive a ball
As far as any man among them all;
In ev'ry hunting-field can lead the van,
And is throughout a perfect gentleman.

Next comes a handsome man, with Roman nose
And whiskers dark—Wolfe Murray I suppose;
He has begun but lately, still he plays
A fairish game, and therefore merits praise;
Ask him when at his worst, and he will say,
"'Tis bad—but, Lord! how I play'd yesterday!"

Another man with whiskers—stout and strong—
A Golfer too who swipes his balls along,
And well he putts, but I should simply say,
His own opinion's better than his play;
Dundas can sing a song, or glee, or catch,
I think far better than he makes a match.

But who is he whose hairy lips betray
Hussar or Lancer? Muse, oh kindly say!
'Tis Captain Feilden. Lord, how hard he hits!
'Tis strange he does not knock the ball to bits!
Sometimes he hits it fair, and makes a stroke
Whose distance Saddell's envy might provoke;
But take his common play; the worst that ever
Play'd Golf might give him one, and beat him clever.
Bad tho' he be, the Captain has done more
Than ever man who play'd at Golf before:
One thund'ring ball he drove—'twas in despair—
Wide of the hole, indeed, but kill'd a hare!

Ah! Captain Campbell, old Schehallion, see!
Most have play'd longer, few so well as he;—
A sterling Highlander, and that's no trifle,—
So thinks the Gael—a workman with a rifle;
Keeps open house—a very proper thing—
And, tho' rheumatic, fiddles like a king!