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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

XIX

I SOMETIMES think that never springs so green
The Turf as where some Good Fe