Volume 152 — THE GOLFER'S PROTEST.

Among the shocks that laid us flat When WILLIAM loosed his wanton hordes There fell no bloodier blow than that Which turned our niblicks into swords; And O how bitter England's cup, In what despair the order sunk her That called her Cincinnati up When busy ploughing in the bunker! Even with those who stuck it out, Bravely defying public shame, Visions of trenches knocked about Would often spoil their usual game; Rumours of victory dearly bought, Or else of bad strategic hitches, Disturbed their concentrated thought And put them off their mashie pitches. Now comes a menace yet more rude That puts us even further off; It says the nation's need of food Must come before the claims of golf; We hear of parties going round, Aided by local War-Committees, To violate our sacred ground By planting veg. along our "pretties." If there be truth in that report, Then have we reached the limit, viz.:— The ruin of that manly sport Which made our country what it is; The ravages we soon restore By conies wrought or hoofs of mutton, But centuries must pass before A turnip-patch is fit to putt on. What! Shall we sacrifice the scenes On which our higher natures thrive Just to provide the vulgar means To keep our lower selves alive? Better to starve (or, better still, Up hands and kiss the Hun peace-makers) Than suffer PROTHERO to till The British golfer's holy acres.