_MacSymon._ "I saw you were carrying for the professor yesterday, Sandy.
How does he play?"
_Sandy._ "Eh, yon man'll never be a gowffer. Div ye ken what he says when he foozles a ba'?"
_MacSymon._ "No. What does he say?"
_Sandy._ "'_Tut-tut!_'"]
THE LINKS
'Tis a brilliant autumn day, And the breeze has blown away All the clouds that lowered gray; So methinks, As I've half an hour to spare, I will go and take the air, While the weather still is fair, On the Links.
I admire the splendid view, The delicious azure hue Of the ocean and--when, _whew_!
With a crack, Lo! there drops a little ball Which elects to break its fall By alighting on the small Of my back.
In the distance someone cries Some remark about my eyes, None too pleasant, I surmise, From the tone; So away my steps I turn Till a figure I discern, Who is mouching by the burn All alone.
He has lost a new "Eclipse,"
And a little word that slips From his sulky-looking lips Tells me true That, besides the missing ball, Which is gone beyond recall, He has lost--what's worst of all-- Temper, too.
I conclude it will be best If I leave him unaddressed, Such a melancholy quest To pursue; And I pass to where I spy Clouds of sand uprising high Till they all but hide the sky From the view.
They proceed, I understand, From a bunker full of sand, Where a golfer, club in hand, Freely swears As he hacks with all his might, Till his countenance is quite As vermilion as the bright Coat he wears.
I observe him for a while With a highly-tickled smile, For it is the queerest style Ever seen: He is very short and stout, And he knocks the ball about, But he never gets it out On the green.
Still I watch him chop and hack, Till I hear a sudden crack, And the club-head makes a track In the light-- There's a startled cry of "FORE!"
As it flies, and all is o'er!-- I remember nothing more Till to-night,
When I find myself in bed With a lump upon my head Like a penny loaf of bread; And methinks, For the future I'll take care When I want a little air, That I won't go anywhere Near the Links.
[Illustration: Punch]
[Illustration:
THE MISERIES OF A _VERY_ AMATEUR GOLFER
He is very shy, and unfortunately has to drive off in front of the lady champion and a large gallery. He makes a tremendous effort. The ball travels at least five yards!]
[Illustration:
_Golfer._ "And what's your name?"
_Caddie._ "They ca' me 'breeks, but ma maiden name is Christy."]
[Illustration: "Mummy, what's that man for?"]
[Illustration:
DISTINCTION WITHOUT DIFFERENCE.--_Sensitive Golfer (who has foozled)._ "Did you laugh at me, boy?"
_Caddie._ "No, sir; I wis laughin' at anither man."
_Sensitive Golfer._ "And what's funny about him?"
_Caddie._ "He plays gowf awfu' like you, sir!"]
[Illustration:
Jones cannot see his ball anywhere, although he is positive it fell about there somewhere.]
[Illustration: Caddie]
NEVER HAVE A CADDIE WITH A SQUINT!
(_A Lay of the Links_)
They told me he was skilful, and assiduous, and true, They told me he had "carried" for the bravest and the best.
His hair was soldier-scarlet, and his eyes were saucer blue, And one seemed looking eastward, whilst the other fronted west.
His strabismus was a startler, and it shook my nerve at once; It affected me with dizziness, like gazing from a height.
I straddled like a duffer, and I wavered like a dunce, And my right hand felt a left one, and my left felt far from right.
As I watched him place my ball with his visual axes crossed, The very sunshine glimmered, with a queer confusing glint, I felt like a sick lubber on Atlantic surges tossed-- Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
I'm an "irritable duffer"--so my enemies declare,-- That is I'm very sensitive, and play a modest game.
A very little puts me off my stroke, and, standing there, With his boot-heels at right angles, and his optics much the same, He maddened me--no less, and I felt that all success Against bumptious young McBungo--was impossible that day.
I'd have parted with a fiver to have beaten him. His dress Was so very very swagger, and his scarlet cap so gay.
He eyed my cross-eyed caddie with a supercilious smirk, I tried to set my features, and my nerves, like any flint; But my "knicker'd" knees were knocking as I wildly set to work.
Oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint!
[Illustration: Golfer]