Better be jocund with a calm Two-score
Than sadden for a bitter Thirty-six.

XLVI

STRANGE, is it not?--that of the myriads who
Into the Out-of-Bounds have late play'd through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Stroke
To guarantee the shortest Hole in Two.

XLVII

THE Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes,
And ye who play behold the Ball fly clean,
Or roll a Rod; but why? Who knows? Who knows?

XLVIII

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.

XLIX

NO hope by Club or Ball to win the Prize:
The batter'd, blacken'd Re-made sweetly flies,
Swept cleanly from the Tee; this is the truth:
Nine-tenths is Skill, and all the rest is Lies.

L

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.

LI

OF Earth's first Clay was the last Golfer framed,
And that last Golfer's latest Score was named
When the first Morning of Creation sang
The Dirge of every Duffer Golf has claimed.

LII

YESTERDAY this Day's Foozling did prepare;
TO-MORROW'S Slicing will not yield to Prayer:
Play! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Play! for you know not why you go, nor where.

LIII

I TELL you this--When, after youth was past,
A kindly Heav'n gave me to Golf at last;
No Freedom but I gladly barter'd for
The satisfying Bond that holds me fast.

LIV

AND this I know: there is a Charm about
The quiet State of Golf, tho' fools may flout,
That with its magic has unlock'd the Door
Of Happiness they only howl without.

* * * * *

LV

AS under cover of departing Day
Slinks the defeated Duffer on his way,
Once more within the Maker's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Tools of Play.

LVI

CLUBS of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some old batter'd Veterans were; and some
Had swung perhaps, but never driv'n at all.

LVII

SAID one among them--"Surely not for naught
Tom Morris fashion'd me with anxious thought,
Has not my Form won many a Match and Cup?
And yet--and yet--I am no longer bought."

LVIII

THEN said a Second--"Hear the Codger croak!
Sure