Sir Thomas of Moncrieffe—I cannot doubt
But he will be a Golfer out-and-out;
Tho' now, perhaps, he's off, and careless too—
His misses numerous, his hits are few;
But he is zealous; and the time will be
When few will better play the game than he.
Balbirnie and Makgill will both be good—
Strong, active, lathy fellows; so they should.
But for John Grant, a clever fellow too,
I really fear that Golf will never do.
'Tis strange, indeed; for he can paint, and ride,
And hunt the hounds, and many a thing beside;
Amuse his friends with anecdote and fun;
But when he takes his club in hand—he's done!
Stay! I retract!—Since writing the above,
I've seen him play a better game, by Jove;
So much beyond what one could have believ'd,
That I confess myself for once deceived;
And if he can go on the season through,
There's still a chance that he may really do.
I've kept a man, in petto, for the last—
Not an old Golfer, but by few surpassed—
Great Captain Fairlie! When he drives a ball—
One of his best—for he don't hit them all,
It then requires no common stretch of sight
To watch its progress, and to see it light.
One moment: I've another to define—
A famous sportsman, and a judge of wine—
Whom faithful Mem'ry offers to my view;
He made the game a study, it is true;
Still, many play as well but, for position
John Buckle fairly beggars competition!
And now farewell! I am the worse for wear—
Grey is my jacket, growing grey my hair!
And though my play is pretty much the same,
Mine is, at best, a despicable game.
But still I like it—still delight to sing
Clubs, players, caddies, balls, and everything.
But all that's bright must fade, and we who play,
Like those before us, soon must pass away;
Yet it requires no prophet's skill to trace
The royal game thro' each succeeding race:
While on the tide of generations flows,
It still shall bloom, a never-fading rose;
And still St. Andrews Links, with flags unfurl'd,
Shall peerless reign, and challenge all the world!
