IN A SERIES OF SONNETS.
I. THE FIRST OR BRIDGE HOLE.
Sacred to hope and promise is the spot—
To Philp's and to the Union Parlour near,
To every Golfer, every caddie dear—
Where we strike off—oh, ne'er to be forgot,
Although in lands most distant we sojourn.
But not without its perils is the place;
Mark the opposing caddie's sly grimace,
Whispering: "He's on the road!" "He's in the burn!"
So is it often in the grander game
Of life, when, eager, hoping for the palm,
Breathing of honour, joy, and love and fame,
Conscious of nothing like a doubt or qualm,
We start, and cry: "Salute us, muse of fire!"
And the first footstep lands us in the mire.
R. C.
II. THE SECOND OR CARTGATE HOLE.
Fearful to Tyro is thy primal stroke,
O Cartgate! for behold the bunker opes
Right to the teeing-place its yawning chops,
Hope to engulf ere it is well awoke.
That passed, a Scylla in the form of rushes
Nods to Charybdis which in ruts appears:
He will be safe who in the middle steers;
One step aside, the ball destruction brushes.
Golf symbols thus again our painful life,
Dangers in front, and pitfalls on each hand:
But see, one glorious cleek-stroke from the sand
Sends Tyro home, and saves all further strife!
He's in at six—old Sandy views the lad
With new respect, remarking: "That's no bad!"
R. C.
III. THE THIRD HOLE.
No rest in Golf—still perils in the path:
Here, playing a good ball, perhaps it goes
Gently into the Principalian Nose,
Or else Tam's Coo, which equally is death.
Perhaps the wind will catch it in mid-air,
And take it to the Whins—"Look out, look out!
Tom Morris, be, oh be, a faithful scout!"
But Tom, though links-eyed, finds not anywhere.
Such thy mishaps, O Merit: feeble balls
Meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green;
'Tis well, my friends, if you, when this befalls,
Can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen.
It only shows the ancient proverb's force,
That you may further go and fare the worse.
R. C.
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.
P. A.
VII. THE HIGH OR EDEN HOLE.
The shelly pit is cleared at one fell blow,
A stroke to be remembered in your dreams!
But here the Eden on your vision gleams,
Lovely, but treach'rous in its solemn flow.
The hole is perched aloft, too near the tide,
The green is small, and broken is the ground
Which doth that little charmed space surround!
Go not too far, and go not to a side;
Take the short spoon to do your second stroke;
Sandy entreats you will the wind take heed on,
For, oh, it would a very saint provoke,
If you should let your ball plump in the Eden.
You do your best, but who can fate control?
So here against you is another hole.
R. C. Jr.
VIII. THE SHORT HOLE.
Brief but not easy is the next adventure;
Legend avers it has been done in one,
Though such long steals are now but rarely done—
In three 'twere well that you the hole should enter.
Strangely original is this bit of ground,
For, while at hand the smooth and smiling green,
One bunker wide and bushy yawns between,
Where Tyro's gutta is too often found.
Nervous your rival strikes and heels his ball—
From that whin-bush at six he'll scarce extract it:
Yours, by no blunder this time counteracted,
Is with the grass-club lofted over all.
There goes a hole in your side—how you hug it!
Much as th' Australian digger does a nugget.
R. C. Jr.
IX. THE END HOLE.
The end, but not the end—the distance-post
That halves the game—a serious point to thee,
For if one more thou losest, 'twill be three:
Yet even in that case, think not all is lost.
Men four behind have been, on the return,
So favoured by Olympus, or by care,
That all their terrors vanished into air,
And caddies cried them dormy at the burn!
I could quote proverbs, did I speak at random:
Full many a broken ship comes into port,
Full many a cause is gained at last resort,
But Golf impresses most, Nil desperandum.
Turn, then, my son, with two against, nor dread
To gain the winning-post with one ahead.
R. C. Jr.
