IV. THE FOURTH OR GINGER-BEER HOLE.
Though thou hast lost this last unlucky hole,
I say again, betake thee not to swearing,
Or any form of speech profanely daring,
Though some allege it tendeth to console.
Better do thou thy swelling griefs control,
Sagacious that at hand a joy awaits thee
(Since out of doubt a glass of beer elates thee),
Without that frightful peril to thy soul.
A glass of beer! go dip thine angry beak in it,
And straight its rage will melt to soft placidity,
That solace finding thou art wise to seek in it;
Ah, do not thou on this poor plea reject it,
That in thy inwards it will breed acidity—
One glass of Stewart's brandy will correct it.
P. A.
V. THE HELL HOLE.
What daring genius first yclept thee Hell?
What high, poetic, awe-struck grand old Golfer,
Much more of a mythologist than scoffer!
Whoe'er he was, the name befits thee well.
"All hope abandon, ye who enter here,"
Is written awful o'er thy gloomy jaws,
A threat to all save Allan might give pause:
And frequent from within come tones of fear—
Dread sound of cleeks, which ever fall in vain,
And—for mere mortal patience is but scanty—
Shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain,
Dire gnashings of the teeth, and horrid curses,
With which I need not decorate my verses,
Because, in fact, you'll find them all in Dante.
P. A.
VI. THE HEATHER HOLE.
Ah me! prodigious woes do still environ—
To quote verbatim from some grave old poet—
The man who needs must meddle with his iron;
And here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it.
For now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins,
Tilling some bunker, as if on a lease of it,
And so assiduous to make due increase of it;
Or wandering homeless through a world of whins!
And when, these perils past, thou seemest dead.
And hop'st a half—O woe, the ball goes crooked,
Making thy foe just one more hole ahead,
Surely a consummation all too sad,
Without that sneering devilish "Never lookit,"
The parting comment of the opposing cad.