Golfiana

ADDRESS TO ST. ANDREWS.

St. Andrews! they say that thy glories are gone,
That thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'erthrown:
If thy glories be gone, they are only, methinks,
As it were, by enchantment, transferr'd to thy Links.
Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates,
Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots,
Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers,
When we say that instead there are Links full of Goffers,
With more of good heart and good feeling among them
Than the abbots, the monks, or the zealots who sung them:
We have red coats and bonnets, we've putters and clubs;
The green has its bunkers, its hazards, and rubs;
At the long hole across we have biscuits and beer,
And the Hebes who sell it give zest to the cheer:
If this make not up for the pomp and the splendour
Of mitres, and murders, and mass—we'll surrender;
If Goffers and caddies be not better neighbours
Than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres,
Let such fancies remain with the fool who so thinks,
While we toast old St. Andrews, its Goffers and Links.

THE GOLFIAD.

Arma, virumq. cano.—Virgil, Æn. i. l. 1.

Balls, clubs, and men I sing, who first, methinks,
Made sport and bustle on North Berwick Links,
Brought coin and fashion, betting, and renown,
Champagne and claret, to a country town,
And lords and ladies, knights and squires, to ground
Where washerwomen erst and snobs were found!

Had I the powers of him who sung of Troy—
Gem of the learned, bore of every boy—
Or him, the bard of Rome, who, later, told
How great Æneas roam'd and fought of old—
I then might shake the gazing world like them;
For who denies I have as grand a theme?
Time-honour'd Golf!—I heard it whisper'd once
That he who could not play was held a dunce
On old Olympus, when it teem'd with gods.
O rare!—but it's a lie—I'll bet the odds!
No doubt these heathen gods, the very minute
They knew the game, would have delighted in it!
Wars, storms, and thunders—all would have been off!
Mars, Jove, and Neptune would have studied Golf,
And swiped—like Oliphant and Wood below—
Smack over hell[2] at one immortal go!
Had Mecca's Prophet known the noble game
Before he gave his paradise to fame,
He would have promis'd, in the land of light,
Golf all the day—and Houris all the night!
But this is speculation: we must come,
And work the subject rather nearer home;
Lest, in attempting all too high to soar,
We fall, like Icarus, to rise no more.

The game is ancient—manly—and employs,
In its departments, women, men, and boys:
Men play the game, the boys the clubs convey,
And lovely woman gives the prize away,
When August brings the great, the medal day!
Nay, more: tho' some may doubt, and sneer, and scoff,
The female muse has sung the game of Goff,
And trac'd it down, with choicest skill and grace,
Thro' all its bearings, to the human race;
The tee, the start of youth—the game, our life—
The ball when fairly bunkered, man and wife.

Now, Muse, assist me while I strive to name
The varied skill and chances of the game.
Suppose we play a match: if all agree,
Let Clan and Saddell tackle Baird and me.
Reader, attend! and learn to play at Goff;
The lord of Saddell and myself strike off!
He strikes—he's in the ditch—this hole is ours;
Bang goes my ball—it's bunker'd, by the pow'rs.
But better play succeeds, these blunders past,
And in six strokes the hole is halved at last.

O hole! tho' small, and scarcely to be seen,
Till we are close upon thee, on the green;
And tho' when seen, save Golfers, few can prize,
The value, the delight that in thee lies;
Yet, without thee, our tools were useless all—
The club, the spoon, the putter, and the ball:
For all is done—each ball arranged on tee,
Each stroke directed—but to enter thee!
If—as each tree, and rock, and cave of old,
Had its presiding nymph, as we are told—
Thou hast thy nymph; I ask for nothing but
Her aid propitious when I come to putt.
Now for the second: And here Baird and Clan
In turn must prove which is the better man:
Sir David swipes sublime!—into the quarry![3]
Whiz goes the chief—a sneezer,[4] by Old Harry!
"Now, lift the stones, but do not touch the ball,
The hole is lost if it but move at all:
Well play'd, my cock! you could not have done more;
'Tis bad, but still we may get home at four."
Now, near the hole Sir David plays the odds;
Clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods!
"A most disgusting steal;[5] well, come away,
They're one ahead, but we have four to play.
We'll win it yet, if I can cross the ditch:
They're over, smack! come, there's another sich."[6]
Baird plays a trump—we hole at three—they stare,
And miss their putt—so now the match is square.

And here, who knows but, as old Homer sung,
The scales of fight on Jove's own finger hung?
Here Clan and Saddell; there swing Baird and I,—
Our merits, that's to say; for half an eye
Could tell, if bodies in the scales were laid,
Which must descend, and which must rise ahead.

If Jove were thus engaged, we did not see him,
But told our boys to clean the balls and tee 'em.
In this next hole the turf is most uneven;
We play like tailors—only in at seven,
And they at six; most miserable play!
But let them laugh who win. Hear Saddell say,
"Now, by the piper who the pibroch played
Before old Moses, we are one ahead,
And only two to play—a special coup!
Three five-pound notes to one!" "Done, sir, with you."
We start again; and in this dangerous hole[7]
Full many a stroke is played with heart and soul:
"Give me the iron!" either party cries,
As in the quarry, track, or sand he lies.
We reach the green at last, at even strokes;
Some caddy chatters, that the chief provokes,
And makes him miss his putt; Baird holes the ball;
Thus, with but one to play, 'tis even all!
'Tis strange, and yet there cannot be a doubt,
That such a snob should put a chieftain out:
The noble lion, thus, in all his pride,
Stung by the gadfly, roars and starts aside;
Clan did not roar—he never makes a noise—
But said, "They're very troublesome, these boys."
His partner muttered something not so civil,
Particularly, "scoundrels"—"at the devil!"
Now Baird and Clan in turn strike off and play[8]
Two strokes, the best that have been seen to-day.
His spoon next Saddell takes, and plays a trump—
Mine should have been as good but for a bump
That turn'd it off. Baird plays the odds—it's all
But in!—at five yards, good, Clan holes the ball!
My partner, self, and song—all three are done!
We lose the match, and all the bets thereon!
Perhaps you think that, tho' I'm not a winner,
My muse should stay and celebrate the dinner;
The ample joints that travel up the stair,
To grace the table spread by Mrs. Blair;
The wine, the ale, the toasts, the jokes, the songs,
And all that to such revelry belongs;—
It may not be! 'twere fearful falling off
To sing such trifles after singing Golf
In most majestic strain; let others dwell
On such, and rack their carnal brains to tell
A tale of sensuality!—Farewell!

[2] Hell is a range of broken ground on St. Andrews Links, bearing probably the same proportion to the ordinary course of the Links as hell would to heaven in the opinion of these immortals.

[3] A place on North Berwick Links, so awkward, that in playing out of it one is allowed to remove everything, provided the position of the ball is not altered.

[4] A long and scientific stroke at golf.

[5] Steal, the act of holing the ball contrary to probability.

[6] A slang term for such.

[7] Fifth hole.

[8] Sixth hole.

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!

[9] Meaning plenty of balls, made by Mr. Gourlay of Bruntsfield Links, a famous artist. The gentleman alluded to generally has, at least, twelve dozen.

ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS.

Alter erit tum Typhys, et altera quæ vehat Argo
Dilectos heroas—erunt etiam altera bella.
Virg. Georgic.

Awake, my slumb'ring Muse, and plume thy wing,
Our former theme—the Game of Golf—to sing!
For since the subject last inspired my pen,
Ten years have glided by, or nearly ten.
Still the old hands at Golf delight to play—
Still new succeed them as they pass away;
Still ginger-beer and parliament are seen
Serv'd out by Houris to the peopled green;
And still the royal game maintains its place,
And will maintain it through each rising race.

Still Major Playfair shines, a star at Golf;
And still the Colonel—though a little off;
The former, skill'd in many a curious art,
As chemist, mechanist, can play his part,
And understands, besides the pow'r of swiping,
Electro-Talbot and Daguerreotyping.
Still Colonel Holcroft steady walks the grass,
And still his putting nothing can surpass—
And still he drives, unless the weather's rough,
Not quite so far as once, but far enough.

Still Saddell walks, superb, improved in play,
Though his blue jacket now is turn'd to grey;
Still are his balls as rife and clean as wont—
Still swears by Ammon, and still bets the blunt—
Still plays all matches—still is often beat—
And still in iced punch drowns each fresh defeat.

Still on the green Clanranald's chief appears,
As gay as ever, as untouch'd by years;
He laughs at Time, and Time, perhaps through whim,
Respects his nonchalance, and laughs at him;
Just fans him with his wings, but spares his head,
As loth to lose a subject so well bred.

Sir Ralph returns—he has been absent long—
No less renown'd in Golfing than in song;
With continental learning richly stored,
Teutonic Bards translated and explored;
A literaire—a German scholar now,
With all Griselda's honours on his brow!

The Links have still the pleasure to behold
Messieux, complete in matches, as of old;
He, modest, tells you that his day's gone by:
If any think it is so—let them try!
Still portly William Wood is to be seen,
As good as ever on the velvet green,
The same unfailing trump; but John, methinks,
Has taken to the Turf, and shies the Links.

Whether the Leger and the Derby pay
As well as Hope Grant, I can scarcely say;
But let that be—'tis better, John, old fellow,
To pluck the rooks, than rook the violoncello.

Permit me just a moment to digress—
Friendship would chide me should I venture less—
The poor Chinese, there cannot be a doubt,
Will shortly be demolish'd out and out;
But—O how blest beyond the common line
Of conquer'd nations by the Power divine!—
Saltoun to cut their yellow throats, and then
Hope Grant to play their requiem-notes—Amen!

Still George Moncrieffe appears the crowd before,
Lieutenant-Colonel—Captain now no more;
Improv'd in ev'rything—in looks and life,
And, more than all, the husband of a wife!

As in the olden time, see Craigie Halkett—
Wild strokes and swiping, jest, and fun, and rackett;
He leaves us now. But in three years, I trust,
He will return, and sport his muzzle dust,
Play Golf again, and patronise all cheer,
From noble Claret down to bitter beer.

Mount-Melville still erect as ever stands,
And plies his club with energetic hands,
Plays short and steady, often is a winner—
A better Captain never graced a dinner.

But where is Oliphant, that artist grand?
He scarce appears among the Golfing band.
No doubt he's married; but when that befalls
Is there an end to putters, clubs, and balls?
Not so, methinks: Sir David Baird can play
With any Golfer of the present day;
The Laird of Lingo, Major Bob Anstruther—
Both married, and the one as good's the other.

Dalgleish and Haig, two better men to play
You scarce will meet upon a summer's day;
Alike correct, whatever may befall,
Swipe, iron, putter, quarter-stroke, and all.

Old Robert Lindsay plays a decent game,
Tho' not a Golfer of enormous fame.
Well can he fish with minnow as with fly,
Paint, and play farthing-brag uncommonly;
Give jolly dinners, justice courts attend—
A good companion and a steady friend.

But Cuttlehill, that wonderful buffoon,
We meet him now no more, as wont, at noon;
No more along the green his jokes are heard,
And some who dared not then, now take the word.
Farewell! facetious Jem—too surely gone—
A loss to us—Joe Miller to Boulogne.

Poor Peter Glass, a worthy soul and blue,
Has paid the debt of nature—'tis too true!
Long did his candle flicker with the gout—
One puff, a little stronger, blew it out.
And good Patullo! he who drove as none,
Since him, have driven—he is also gone!
And Captain Cheape—who does not mourn the day
That snatch'd so good, so kind a friend away?
One more I name—and only one—but he
Was older far, and lower in degree—
Great Davie Robertson, the eldest cad,
In whom the good was stronger than the bad;
He sleeps in death! and with him sleeps a skill
Which Davie, statesmanlike, could wield at will!
Sound be his slumbers! yet if he should wake
In worlds where Golf is play'd, himself he'd shake,
And look about, and tell each young beginner,
"I'll gie half-ane—nae mair, as I'm a sinner."
He leaves a son, and Allan is his name,
In Golfing far beyond his father's fame;
Tho' in diplomacy, I shrewdly guess,
His skill's inferior, and his fame is less.

Now for the mushrooms—old, perchance, or new—
But whom my former strain did not review:
I'll name an old one, Patton, Tom, of Perth,
Short, stout, grey-headed, but of sterling worth!
A Golfer perfect—something, it may be,
The worse for wear, but few so true as he;
Good-humour'd when behind as when ahead,
And drinks like blazes till he goes to bed.
His friend is Peddie, not an awful swiper,
But at the putting he's a very viper:
Give him a man to drive him through the green,
And he'll be bad to beat, it will be seen—
Patton and Peddie—Peddie and Patton,
Are just the people one should bet upon.

There Keith with Andrew Wauchope works away,
And most respectable the game they play;
The navy Captain's steadiness and age
Give him, perhaps, the pull—but I'll engage,
Ere some few months, or rather weeks, are fled,
Youth and activity will take the lead.

See Gilmour next—and he can drive a ball
As far as any man among them all;
In ev'ry hunting-field can lead the van,
And is throughout a perfect gentleman.

Next comes a handsome man, with Roman nose
And whiskers dark—Wolfe Murray I suppose;
He has begun but lately, still he plays
A fairish game, and therefore merits praise;
Ask him when at his worst, and he will say,
"'Tis bad—but, Lord! how I play'd yesterday!"

Another man with whiskers—stout and strong—
A Golfer too who swipes his balls along,
And well he putts, but I should simply say,
His own opinion's better than his play;
Dundas can sing a song, or glee, or catch,
I think far better than he makes a match.

But who is he whose hairy lips betray
Hussar or Lancer? Muse, oh kindly say!
'Tis Captain Feilden. Lord, how hard he hits!
'Tis strange he does not knock the ball to bits!
Sometimes he hits it fair, and makes a stroke
Whose distance Saddell's envy might provoke;
But take his common play; the worst that ever
Play'd Golf might give him one, and beat him clever.
Bad tho' he be, the Captain has done more
Than ever man who play'd at Golf before:
One thund'ring ball he drove—'twas in despair—
Wide of the hole, indeed, but kill'd a hare!

Ah! Captain Campbell, old Schehallion, see!
Most have play'd longer, few so well as he;—
A sterling Highlander, and that's no trifle,—
So thinks the Gael—a workman with a rifle;
Keeps open house—a very proper thing—
And, tho' rheumatic, fiddles like a king!

Sir Thomas of Moncrieffe—I cannot doubt
But he will be a Golfer out-and-out;
Tho' now, perhaps, he's off, and careless too—
His misses numerous, his hits are few;
But he is zealous; and the time will be
When few will better play the game than he.
Balbirnie and Makgill will both be good—
Strong, active, lathy fellows; so they should.

But for John Grant, a clever fellow too,
I really fear that Golf will never do.
'Tis strange, indeed; for he can paint, and ride,
And hunt the hounds, and many a thing beside;
Amuse his friends with anecdote and fun;
But when he takes his club in hand—he's done!
Stay! I retract!—Since writing the above,
I've seen him play a better game, by Jove;
So much beyond what one could have believ'd,
That I confess myself for once deceived;
And if he can go on the season through,
There's still a chance that he may really do.

I've kept a man, in petto, for the last—
Not an old Golfer, but by few surpassed—
Great Captain Fairlie! When he drives a ball—
One of his best—for he don't hit them all,
It then requires no common stretch of sight
To watch its progress, and to see it light.

One moment: I've another to define—
A famous sportsman, and a judge of wine—
Whom faithful Mem'ry offers to my view;
He made the game a study, it is true;
Still, many play as well but, for position
John Buckle fairly beggars competition!

And now farewell! I am the worse for wear—
Grey is my jacket, growing grey my hair!
And though my play is pretty much the same,
Mine is, at best, a despicable game.
But still I like it—still delight to sing
Clubs, players, caddies, balls, and everything.
But all that's bright must fade, and we who play,
Like those before us, soon must pass away;
Yet it requires no prophet's skill to trace
The royal game thro' each succeeding race:
While on the tide of generations flows,
It still shall bloom, a never-fading rose;
And still St. Andrews Links, with flags unfurl'd,
Shall peerless reign, and challenge all the world!