II.—The Links of Love.
My heart is like a driver-club, That heaves the pellet hard and straight, That carries every let and rub. The whole performance really great; My heart is like a bulger-head, That whiffles on the wily tee,— Because my love distinctly said She'd halve the round of life with me.
My heart is also like a cleek, Resembling most the mashie sort, That spanks the object, so to speak, Across the sandy bar to port; And hers is like a putting green, The haven where I boast to be, For she assures me she is keen To halve the round of life with me.
Some wear their hearts upon their sleeve, And others lose 'em on the links; (This play of words is, by your leave, Rather original, one thinks;) Therefore my heart is like to some Lost ball that nestles on the lea, Because my love has kindly come To halve the round of life with me.
Raise me a bunker, if you can, That beetles o'er a deadly ditch, Where any but the bogey-man Is practically bound to pitch; Plant me beneath a hedge of thorn, Or up a figurative tree, What matter, when my love has sworn To halve the round of life with me?
THE YELLOW AGE.
The poets sing of a Golden Age. Are we trying to start its fellow? The Yellow Aster is all the rage; The Yellow Races in war engage; The Primrose League wild war doth wage, And the much-boomed Book in cover and page Like the Age itself is—Yellow. Well, Yellow's the tint of Gold—and Brass! Of the Golden Calf—and the Golden Ass! Of the "livery" face and the faded leaf, But 'tis tedious, very, beyond belief. I own I am little inclined to smile On the colour of age, decay, and bile And mustard, and Othello; I'm tired, I own, of it's very look, And I feel compelled to cock a snook At the Yellow Primrose, the Yellow Book. Though an Age indeed That runs to seed Is like to run to Yellow!
