Poems on Golf

by Unknown

[7] Fifth hole.

[8] Sixth hole.

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THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS ON A CROWDED DAY.

Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit.—Æn. i. l. 208.

'Tis morn! and man awakes, by sleep refresh'd,
To do whate'er he has to do with zest;
But at St. Andrews, where my scene is laid,
One only thought can enter every head;
The thought of Golf, to wit—and that engages
Men of all sizes, tempers, ranks, and ages;
The root—the primum mobile of all,
The epidemic of the club and ball;
The work by day, the source of dreams by night,
The never-failing fountain of delight!
Here, Mr. Philp, club-maker, is as great
As Philip—as any minister of state!
And every caddy as profess'd a hero
As Captain Cook, or Wellington, or Nero!
For instance—Davie, oldest of the cads,
Who gives half-one to unsuspicious lads,
When he might give them two, or even more,
And win, perhaps, three matches out of four,
Is just as politic in his affairs
As Talleyrand or Metternich in theirs.
He has the statesman's elements, 'tis plain,
Cheat, flatter, humbug—anything for gain;
And had he trod the world's wide field, methinks,
As long as he has trod St. Andrews Links,
He might have been prime minister, or priest,
My lord, or plain Sir David at the least!

Now, to the ground of Golf my muse shall fly,
The various men assembled to descry,
Nine-tenths of whom, throughout the rolling year,
At the first hole unfailingly appear;
Where, "How d'ye do?" "Fine morning," "Rainy day,"
And, "What's the match?" are preludes to the play.
So full the meeting that I scarcely can,
In such a crowd, distinguish man from man.
We'll take them as they come:—He next the wall,
Outside, upon the right, is Mr. Saddell;
And well he plays, though, rising on his toes,
Whiz round his head his supple club he throws.
There, Doctor Moodie, turtle-like, displays
His well-filled paunch, and swipes beyond all praise;
While Cuttlehill, of slang and chatter chief,
Provokes the bile of Captain George Moncrieffe.
See Colonel Playfair, shaped in form rotund,
Parade, the unrivall'd Falstaff of the ground;
He laughs and jokes, plays, "what you like," and yet
You'll rarely find him make a foolish bet.
Against the sky, display'd in high relief,
I see the figure of Clanranald's Chief,
Dress'd most correctly in the fancy style,
Well-whisker'd face, and radiant with a smile;
He bows, shakes hands, and has a word for all—
So did Beau Nash, as master of the ball!
Near him is Saddell, dress'd in blue coat plain,
With lots of Gourlays,[9] free from spot or stain;
He whirls his club to catch the proper swing,
And freely bets round all the scarlet ring;
And swears by Ammon, he'll engage to drive
As long a ball as any man alive!
That's Major Playfair, a man of nerve unshaken—
He knows a thing or two, or I'm mistaken;
And when he's press'd, can play a tearing game,
He works for certainty and not for Fame!
There's none—I'll back the assertion with a wager—
Can play the heavy iron like the Major.
Next him is Craigie Halkett, one who can
Swipe out, for distance, against any man;
But in what course the ball so struck may go,
No looker on—not he himself—can know.
See Major Holcroft, he's a steady hand
Among the best of all the Golfing band;
He plays a winning game in every part,
But near the hole displays the greatest art.
There young Patullo stands, and he, methinks,
Can drive the longest ball upon the Links;
And well he plays the spoon and iron, but
He fails a little when he comes to putt.
Near Captain Cheape, a sailor by profession
(But not so good at Golf as navigation),
Is Mr. Peter Glass, who once could play
A better game than he can do to-day.
We cannot last for ever! and the gout,
Confirmed, is wondrous apt to put us out.
There, to the left, I see Mount-Melville stand
Erect, his driving putter in his hand;
It is a club he cannot leave behind,
It works the balls so well against the wind.
Sir David Erskine has come into play,
He has not won the medal yet, but may.
Dost love the greatest laugher of the lot?—
Then play a round with little Mr. Scott:
He is a merry cock, and seems to me
To win or lose with equal ecstasy.
Here's Mr. Messieux, he's a noble player,
But something nervous—that's a bad affair;
It sadly spoils his putting, when he's press'd—
But let him win, and he will beat the best.
That little man that's seated on the ground
In red, must be Carnegie, I'll be bound!
A most conceited dog, not slow to go it
At Golf, or anything—a sort of poet;
He talks to Wood—John Wood—who ranks among
The tip-top hands that to the Club belong;
And Oliphant, the rival of the last,
Whose play, at times, can scarcely be surpass'd.
Who's he that's just arrived?—I know him well;
It is the Cupar Provost, John Dalzell:
When he does hit the ball, he swipes like blazes—
It is but seldom, and himself amazes;
But when he winds his horn, and leads the chase,
The Laird of Lingo's in his proper place.
It has been said that, at the break of day
His Golf is better than his evening play:
That must be scandal; for I am sure that none
Could think of Golf before the rise of sun.
He now is talking to his lady's brother,
A man of politics, Sir Ralph Anstruther:
Were he but once in Parliament, methinks,
And working there as well as on the Links,
The burghs, I'll be bound, would not repent them
That they had such a man to represent them:
There's one thing only—when he's on the roll,
He must not lose his nerve, as when he's near the hole.
Upon his right is Major Bob Anstruther;
Cobbet's one radical—and he's another.

But when we meet, as here, to play at Golf,
Whig, Radical, and Tory—all are off—
Off the contested politics, I mean—
And fun and harmony illume the scene.
We make our matches from the love of playing,
Without one loathsome feeling but the paying,
And that is lessened by the thought, we borrow
Only to-day what we shall win to-morrow.
Then, here's prosperity to Golf! and long
May those who play be cheerful, fresh, and strong;
When driving ceases, may we still be able
To play the shorts, putt, and be comfortable!
And to the latest may we fondly cherish
The thoughts of Golf—so let St. Andrews flourish!