Poems on Golf

by Unknown

By Thomas Mathison, originally a Writer in Edinburgh, and afterwards Minister of Brechin. Reprinted from the second edition of the Poem.—1763.

CANTO I.

GOFF, and the Man, I sing, who, em'lous, plies
The jointed club, whose balls invade the skies,
Who from Edina's tow'rs, his peaceful home,
In quest of fame o'er Letha's plains did roam.
Long toil'd the hero, on the verdant field,
Strain'd his stout arm the weighty club to wield;
Such toils it cost, such labours to obtain
The bays of conquest, and the bowl to gain.
O thou Golfinia, Goddess of these plains!
Great Patroness of GOFF! indulge my strains;
Whether beneath the thorn-tree shade you lie,
Or from Mercerian tow'rs the game survey,
Or round the green the flying ball you chase,
Or make your bed in some hot sandy face:
Leave your much-lov'd abode, inspire his lays
Who sings of Goff, and sings thy fav'rite's praise.
North from Edina eight furlongs and more,
Lies that fam'd field, on Fortha's sounding shore.
Here Caledonian Chiefs for health resort,
Confirm their sinews by the manly sport.
Macdonald and unmatch'd Dalrymple ply
Their pond'rous weapons, and the green defy;
Rattray for skill, and Corse for strength renown'd,
Stewart and Lesly beat the sandy ground,
And Brown and Alston, Chiefs well known to fame,
And numbers more the Muse forbears to name.
Gigantic Biggar here full oft is seen,
Like huge behemoth on an Indian green;
His bulk enormous scarce can 'scape the eyes,
Amaz'd spectators wonder how he plies.
Yea, here great Forbes,[1] patron of the just,
The dread of villains and the good man's trust,
When spent with toils in serving human kind,
His body recreates, and unbends his mind.
Bright Phœbus now had measur'd half the day,
And warm'd the earth with genial noon-tide ray;
Forth rush'd Castalio and his daring foe,
Both arm'd with clubs, and eager for the blow.
Of finest ash Castalio's shaft was made,
Pond'rous with lead, and fenc'd with horn the head
(The work of Dickson, who in Letha dwells,
And in the art of making clubs excels),
Which late beneath great Claro's arm did bend,
But now is wielded by his greater friend.
Not with more fury Norris cleav'd the main,
To pour his thund'ring arms on guilty Spain;
Nor with more haste brave Haddock bent his course
To guard Minorca from Iberian force,—
Than thou, intrepid hero, urg'd thy way
O'er roads and sands, impatient for the fray.
With equal warmth Pygmalion fast pursu'd
(With courage oft are little wights endued),
'Till to Golfinia's downs the heroes came,
The scene of combat and the field of fame.
Upon a verdant bank by Flora grac'd,
Two sister Fairies found the Goddess plac'd;
Propp'd by her snowy hand her head reclin'd,
Her curling locks hung waving in the wind.
She eyes intent the consecrated green,
Crowded with waving clubs and vot'ries keen,
And hears the prayers of youths to her address'd,
And from the hollow face relieves the ball distress'd.
On either side the sprightly Dryads sat,
And entertained the Goddess with their chat.
First Verdurilla, thus: O rural Queen!
What chiefs are those that drive along the green?
With brandish'd clubs the mighty heroes threat,
Their eager looks foretell a keen debate.
To whom Golfinia: Nymph, your eyes behold
Pygmalion stout, Castalio brave and bold.
From silver Ierna's banks Castalio came,
But first on Andrean plains he courted fame.
His sire, a Druid, taught (one day of seven)
The paths of virtue, the sure road to heaven.
In Pictish capital the good man passed
His virtuous life, and there he breath'd his last.
The son now dwells in fair Edina's town,
And on our sandy plains pursues renown.
See low Pygmalion, skilled in GOFFING art,
Small is his size, but dauntless is his heart:
Fast by a desk in Edin's domes he sits,
With saids and sicklikes length'ning out the writs.
For no mean prize the rival chiefs contend,
But full rewards the victor's toils attend.
The vanquish'd hero for the victor fills
A mighty bowl containing thirty gills;
With noblest liquor is the bowl replete;
Here sweets and acids, strength and weakness meet.
From Indian isles the strength and sweetness flow,
And Tagus' banks their golden fruits bestow;
Cold Caledonia's lucid streams controul
The fiery spirits, and fulfil the bowl;
For Albion's peace and Albion's friends they pray,
And drown in Punch the labours of the day.
The Goddess spoke, and thus Gambolia pray'd:
Permit to join in brave Pygmalion's aid,
O'er each deep road the hero to sustain,
And guide his ball to the desired plain.
To this the Goddess of the manly sport:
Go, and be thou that daring chief's support.
Let Verdurilla be Castalio's stay;
I from this flow'ry seat will view the fray.
She said: the nymphs trip nimbly o'er the green,
And to the combatants approach unseen.

[
[1] Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court of Session in Scotland.

END OF CANTO I.

---

CANTO II.

Ye rural powers that on these plains preside,
Ye nymphs that dance on Fortha's flow'ry side,
Assist the Muse that in your fields delights,
And guide her course in these uncommon flights.
But chief, thee, O Golfinia! I implore,
High as thy balls instruct my Muse to soar:
So may thy green for ever crowded be,
And balls on balls invade the azure sky.
Now at that hole the chiefs begin the game,
Which from the neighb'ring thorn-tree takes its name;
Ardent they grasp the ball-compelling clubs,
And stretch their arms t' attack the little globes;
Not as our warriors brandish'd dreadful arms,
When fierce Bellona sounded war's alarms;
When conqu'ring Cromwell stain'd fair Eska's flood,
And soak'd her banks with Caledonian blood;
Or when our bold ancestors madly fought,
And clans engaged for trifles or for nought.
That Fury now from our bless'd fields is driv'n,
To scourge unhappy nations doom'd by heav'n.
Let Kouli Kan destroy the fertile East,
Victorious Vernon thunder in the West;
Let horrid war involve perfidious Spain,
And George assert his empire o'er the main:
But on our plains Britannia's sons engage,
And void of ire the sportive war they wage.
Lo, tatter'd Irus, who their armour bears,
Upon the green two little pyr'mids rears;
On these they place two balls with careful eye,
That with Clarinda's breasts for colour vie,—
The work of Bobson, who, with matchless art,
Shapes the firm hide, connecting ev'ry part,—
Then in a socket sets the well-stitched void,
And thro' the eyelet drives the downy tide;
Crowds urging crowds the forceful brogue impels,
The feathers harden and the leather swells;
He crams and sweats, yet crams and urges more,
Till scarce the turgid globe contains its store;
The dreadful falcon's pride here blended lies
With pigeons' glossy down of various dyes;
The lark's small pinions join the common stock,
And yellow glory of the martial cock.
Soon as Hyperion gilds old Andrea's spires,
From bed the artist to his cell retires,
With bended back, there plies his steely awls,
And shapes, and stuffs, and finishes the balls.
But when the glorious God of day has driv'n
His flaming chariot down the steep of heav'n,
He ends his labour, and with rural strains
Enchants the lovely maids and weary swains:
As thro' the streets the blythsome piper plays,
In antic dance they answer to his lays;
At ev'ry pause the ravish'd crowd acclaim,
And rends the skies with tuneful Bobson's name.
Not more rewarded was old Amphion's song,
That reared a town, and this drags one along.
Such is fam'd Bobson, who in Andrea thrives,
And such the balls each vig'rous hero drives.
First, bold Castalio, ere he struck the blow,
Lean'd on his club, and thus address'd his foe:
Dares weak Pygmalion this stout arm defy,
Which brave Matthias doth with terror try?
Strong as he is, Moravio owns my might,
Distrusts his vigour, and declines the fight.
Renown'd Clephanio I constrain'd to yield,
And drove the haughty vet'ran from the field.
Weak is thine arm, rash youth! thy courage vain;
Vanquish'd, with shame you'll curse the fatal plain.
The half-struck balls your weak endeavours mock,
Slowly proceed, and soon forget the stroke.
Not so the orb eludes my thund'ring force,
Thro' fields of air it holds its rapid course;
Swift as the balls from martial engines driv'n,
Streams like a comet thro' the arch of heav'n.
Vaunter, go on! (Pygmalion thus replies);
Thine empty boasts with justice I despise!
Hadst thou the strength Goliah's spear to wield,
Like its great master thunder on the field,
And with that strength Culloden's matchless art,
Not one unmanly thought should daunt my heart.
He said: and sign'd to Irus, who before
With frequent warnings fill'd the sounding shore.
Then great Castalio his whole strength collects,
And on the orb a noble blow directs;
Swift as a thought the ball obedient flies,
Sings high in air, and seems to cleave the skies;
Then on the level plain its fury spends;
And Irus to the chief the welcome tidings sends.
Next in his turn Pygmalion strikes the globe;
On the upper half descends the erring club;
Along the green the ball confounded scours;
No lofty flight the ill-sped stroke impow'rs.
Thus, when the trembling hare descries the hounds,
She from her whinny mansion swiftly bounds;
O'er hills and fields she scours, outstrips the wind;
The hounds and huntsmen follow far behind.
Gambolia now afforded timely aid,
She o'er the sand the fainting ball convey'd;
Renew'd its force, and urg'd it on its way,
Till on the summit of the hill it lay.
Now all on fire the chiefs their orbs pursue,
With the next stroke the orbs their flight renew;
Thrice round the green they urge the whizzing ball,
And thrice three holes to great Castalio fall:
The other six Pygmalion bore away,
And saved a while the honours of the day.
Had some brave champion of the sandy field
The chiefs attended, and the game beheld,
With ev'ry stroke his wonder had increas'd,
And em'lous fires had kindled in his breast.