IN A SERIES OF SONNETS.
I. THE FIRST OR BRIDGE HOLE.
Sacred to hope and promise is the spot—
To Philp's and to the Union Parlour near,
To every Golfer, every caddie dear—
Where we strike off—oh, ne'er to be forgot,
Although in lands most distant we sojourn.
But not without its perils is the place;
Mark the opposing caddie's sly grimace,
Whispering: "He's on the road!" "He's in the burn!"
So is it often in the grander game
Of life, when, eager, hoping for the palm,
Breathing of honour, joy, and love and fame,
Conscious of nothing like a doubt or qualm,
We start, and cry: "Salute us, muse of fire!"
And the first footstep lands us in the mire.
R. C.
II. THE SECOND OR CARTGATE HOLE.
Fearful to Tyro is thy primal stroke,
O Cartgate! for behold the bunker opes
Right to the teeing-place its yawning chops,
Hope to engulf ere it is well awoke.
That passed, a Scylla in the form of rushes
Nods to Charybdis which in ruts appears:
He will be safe who in the middle steers;
One step aside, the ball destruction brushes.
Golf symbols thus again our painful life,
Dangers in front, and pitfalls on each hand:
But see, one glorious cleek-stroke from the sand
Sends Tyro home, and saves all further strife!
He's in at six—old Sandy views the lad
With new respect, remarking: "That's no bad!"
III. THE THIRD HOLE.
No rest in Golf—still perils in the path:
Here, playing a good ball, perhaps it goes
Gently into the Principalian Nose,
Or else Tam's Coo, which equally is death.
Perhaps the wind will catch it in mid-air,
And take it to the Whins—"Look out, look out!
Tom Morris, be, oh be, a faithful scout!"
But Tom, though links-eyed, finds not anywhere.
Such thy mishaps, O Merit: feeble balls
Meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green;
'Tis well, my friends, if you, when this befalls,
Can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen.
It only shows the ancient proverb's force,
That you may further go and fare the worse.
R. C.