Volume 10 — THE GOLFER'S RUBAIYAT[1]

Wake! for the sun has driven in equal flight The stars before him from the Tee of Night, And holed them every one without a miss, Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light. Now the fresh Year, reviving old Desires, The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires, Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye, And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars. Come, choose your ball, and in the Fire of Spring Your Red Coat, and your wooden Putter fling; The Club of Time has but a little while To waggle, and the Club is on the swing. Whether at Musselburgh or Shinnecock, In motley Hose or humbler motley Sock, The Cup of Life is ebbing Drop by Drop, Whether the Cup be filled with Scotch or Bock. A Bag of Clubs, a Silver-Town or two, A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag—and Thou Beside me caddying in the Wilderness— Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow. They say the Female and the Duffer strut On sacred Greens where Morris used to put; Himself a natural Hazard now, alas! That nice hand quiet now, that great Eye shut. I sometimes think that never springs so green The Turf as where some Good Fellow has been, And every emerald Stretch the Fair Green shows His kindly Tread has known, his sure Play seen. Myself when young did eagerly frequent Jamie and His, and heard great argument Of Grip and Stance and Swing; but evermore Found at the Exit but a Dollar spent. With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand sought to make it grow; And this was all the Harvest that I reaped: "You hold it This Way, and you swing it So." The swinging Brassie strikes; and, having struck, Moves on: nor all your Wit or future Luck Shall lure it back to cancel half a Stroke, Nor from the Card a single Seven pluck. And that inverted Ball they call the High— By which the Duffer thinks to live or die, Lift not your hands to It for help, for it As impotently froths as you or I. Yon rising Moon that leads us Home again, How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; How oft hereafter rising wait for us At this same Turning—and for One in vain. And when, like her, my Golfer, I have been And am no more above the pleasant Green, And you in your mild Journey pass the Hole I made in One—ah! pay my Forfeit then!