The Golfer's Rubaiyat, Henry Walcott Boynton [read out loud books txt] 📗
- Author: Henry Walcott Boynton
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The Golfer’s Rubáiyát
I
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.
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II
WAKE, Loiterer! for already Dawn is seen
With her red marker on the eastern Green,
And summons all her Little Ones to change
A joyous Three for every sad Thirteen.
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III
AND as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The first Tee murmur’d: “Just this chance to score,
You know how little while we have to play,
And, once departed, may return no more.”
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IV
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.
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V
CAMPBELL indeed is past with all his Fame,
And old Tom Morris now is but a name;
But many a Jamie by the Bunker blows,
And many a Willie rules us, just the same.
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VI
A THOUSAND lips are lockt; but still in hoar
High-balling Andrew’s Shrine, with “Fore, fore, fore!
Oh, fore!” the Golfer to the Duffer cries,
That reddened cheek of his to redden more.
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VII
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.
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VII
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.
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IX
EACH Morn a thousand Matches brings, you say;
Yes, but who plays the Match of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month of opening Greens
Shall take this Championship and That away.
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X
WELL, let it take them! What have we to do
With Championships, or, Champion, with you?
Let This or Other struggle as he will,
For him alone the Strife—for him to rue.
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XI
WITH me along the strip of sandy Down
That just divides the Desert from the sown,
Where name of Shop and Study is forgot,—
And Peace to Croker on his golden Throne!
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XII
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.
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XIII
SOME for the weekly Handicap; and some
Sigh for a greater Championship to come:
Ah, play the Match, and let the Medal go,
Nor heed old Bogey with his wretched Sum.
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XIV
LOOK to the blowing Rows about us—“Lo,
“Strolling,” they say, “over the course we go,
“And here or there we lightly flick the Ball,
“Turn, and the Trick is done—in So-and-so.”
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XV
BUT those who keep their Cards and turn them in,
And those who weekly Handicaps may win,
Alike to no such aureate Fame are brought,
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
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XVI
THE shining Cup men set their hearts upon
Is lost to them—or won them; and anon,
Like a good Three set in a bald Three-score,
That Glory gleams a moment—and is gone.
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XVII
THINK, in this worn, forlorn old Field of Play,
Whose Green-keepers in turn are Night and Day,
How Champion after Champion with his Pomp
Abode his destin’d Hour and went his way.
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XVIII
THEY say the Female and the Duffer strut
On sacred Greens where Morris used to putt;
Himself a natural Hazard now, alas!
That nice Hand quiet now, that great Eye shut.
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XIX
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.
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XX
AND this reviving Herb whose tender green
Muffles the fair white Sphere o’er which we lean,
Ah, curse it gently, for here Jamie once—
Great Jamie—lay, and fetch’d a bad Thirteen.
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XXI
AH, my Belovéd, play the Round that offers
TO-DAY some joy, whate’er To-morrow suffers:
To-morrow!—why, to-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Duffers.
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XXII
AND some we loved, the feeblest with a Club,
Ordain’d to sclaff, to foozle, and to flub,
Have turned in Cards a Round or two before,
And played that final Green without a Rub.
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XXIII
AND we that now make merry on the Green
They left, and Summer dresses in new sheen,
Ourselves must we beneath the springing Turf
Add our Ell to the Bunker of Has-been.
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XXIV
AH, make the most of what we yet may spend
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into dust, and under Dust to lie,
Sans Breath, sans Golf, sans Golfer, and—sans End!
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XXV
ALIKE for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those who after some TO-MORROW stare,
A Keeper from the Links of Darkness cries
Fools, your Reward is neither Here nor There.
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XXVI
WHY, all the Toms and Jamies who discuss’d
Of the True Art so wisely—they are thrust
Like foolish prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter’d, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
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XXVII
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.
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XXVIII
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 reap’d—
“You hold it This Way, and you swing it So.”
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XXIX
PATIENT I fared to many a sacred Spot,
Ev’n at the Shrine of Andrew cast my lot,
And many a Knot unravel’d by the Road;
But not, alas! of Golf the Master-knot.
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XXX
THERE was a Green for which I found no Tee,
And a blind Bunker which I might not see:
Out of the distant Dark a Voice cries “Fore!”
And then—and then no more of Thee and Me.
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XXXI
AS then the Sparrow for his morning Crumb,
Do thou each Morrow to the First Tee come,
And play thy quiet Round, till crusty Age
Condemn thee to a hopeless Dufferdom.
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XXXII
PERPLEXT no more with Where or How or Why,
Thy easy fingers to the Shaft apply,
Content to send away a fair straight Ball,
Though follow’d earthward by the naked Eye.
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XXXIII
AND if the Ball you drive, the Shaft you press,
End in what all begins and ends in—Yes;
Thank Heav’n you play To-day as Yesterday
You play’d—To-morrow you shall not do less.
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XXXIV
GLAD if the Master of the Handicap
At last shall find you come without Mishap,
Though without Glory, to turn in the Card
He has expected of your sort of Chap.
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XXXV
WHAT though a Fluke should fling your Class aside,
And Best Gross be your momentary
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