he would make of Golf an ancient Joke;
But Me--just think! a modern Willie Park,
My fickle Owner cannot sell nor soak!"

LIX

AFTER a momentary silence spake
A Brassie of a more ungainly make--
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
Well, then, I ask who won the last Sweepstake?"

LX

WHEREAT some one of the loquacious Lot,
I think a putting Niblick, or if not,
A driving Putter, or a goose-neck'd Cleek--
"Pray, what is Golf then,--and the Golfer what?"

LXI

"WHY," said another, "Some there are who say
That Golf is but a Game that Golfers play,
And some that Life is but a mighty Green,
And Golf the Art to use it day by day."

LXII

"WELL," murmur'd one, "let whoso make or buy,
All in one Pickle we--like as we lie:
For let the right Good-Fellow come along,
We all may lay the Ball dead by and by."

LXIII

SO one and one and one I heard them speak:
"Ah, Friends," said I, "'tis not a Make we seek,
A Duffer arm'd with all the Clubs there be--
What is he to a Player with a Cleek?"

* * * * *

LXIV

LATELY, agape beside the door of Fame,
Sudden a Touch upon my shoulder came,
And thro' the Dusk an Angel Shape held out
The greater Guerdon; and it was--the Game!

LXV

THE Game that can with Logic absolute
The Dronings of the Soberheads confute,
Silence the scoffing ones, and in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute.

LXVI

INDEED, the brave Game I have loved so well
Has little taught me how to buy or sell;
Has pawn'd my Greatness for an Hour of Ease,
And barter'd cold Cash for--a Miracle.

LXVII

INDEED, indeed, Repentance oft before
I swore--but it was Winter when I swore,
And then and then came Spring, and Club-in-hand
I hasten'd forth for one Round--one Round more.

LXVIII

BUT much as Golf has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my worldly Profit--Well,
I often wonder what the Grubbers earn
One half so precious as the Joy they sell.

LXIX

WHAT! for a senseless Bank-Account to wreak
Their manly Strength on Ledgers, till too weak
To swing a club?--So Caddies calmly tread
In Mire the Ball Heav'n sent them here to seek.

LXX

WHAT! as a poor dull Drudge to waste the Force
That might have made a Golfer, till the Source
Of Golf be dried--and Life grow all too brief
To top a Ball around the Ladies' Course!

LXXI

YET, ah, that Golf should vanish with the gre