I tried to look away from the spoiler of my play, But for fiendish fascination he was like a squinting snake; All the muffings man can muff I contrived to muff that day; My eyes were all askew and my nerves were all ashake.
I seemed to squint myself, and not only with my eyes, My knees, my hands, my elbows, with obliquity were rife.
McBungo's sleek sham sympathy and sinister surprise Made almost insupportable the burden of my life.
He _was_ so beastly friendly, and he _was_ so blazing fair, So fulsomely effusive with suggestion, tip, and hint!
And all the while that caddie stood serenely cock-eyed there.
Oh! _never_ have a caddie with a squint!
Miss Binks was looking on! On that maiden I was gone, Just as she was gone on golf, in perfervid Scottish style.
On my merits with McBungo I should just about have won, But my shots to-day were such as made even Effie smile; Oh, the lumps of turf I lifted! Oh, the easy balls I missed!
Oh, the bunkers I got bogged in! And at last a gentle scorn Curled the lips I would have given my pet "Putter" to have kissed.
Such a bungler as myself her loved links had never borne; And all the while McBungo--the young crocodile!--bewailed What he called my "beastly luck," though his joy was plain as print, Whilst that squint grew worse and worse at each shot of mine which failed.
Oh! never have a caddie with a squint!
[Illustration: Lady Golfer]
In "playing through the green" with my "brassie" I was seen At most dismal disadvantage on that miserable day; _He_ pointed through the rushes with cock-eyed, sardonic spleen,-- I followed his squint guidance, and I struck a yard away; But, oh! 'twas worst of all, when I tried to hole the ball.
Oh, the ogre! _How_ he squinted at that crisis of the game!
His hideous strabismus held me helpless, a blind thrall Shattered my nerves completely, put my skill to open shame.
That squint would, I am sure, have upset the solar system-- Oho! the impish impudence, the gruesome goggle-glint!
The low, malicious chuckle, as he softly muttered, "Missed 'im!"
No, _never_ have a caddie with a squint!
Yet all the same McBungo did _not_ get that rich Miss Binks, Who was so sweet in every way, especially on golf.
He fancied he had cut me out that day upon those links, But although he won the game--at golf, his love-game came not off.
He and that demon caddie tried between them very hard To shame me in the eyes of that dear enthusiast, But--well, my clubs she carries, whilst McBungo, evil-starred, Was caught by a Scotch vixen with an obvious optic cast!
_That's_ Nemesis, I say! And she will not let him play At the game he so adores. True she's wealthy as the Mint.
At golf, with Effie, I have passed many a happy day, But--we never have a caddie with a squint!
A caddie who's a duffer, or a caddie who gets drunk; A caddie who regards all other caddies as his foes; A caddie who will snigger when you fumble, fail or funk; A caddie who will whistle, or seems ever on the doze; A caddie who's too tiny, or too big and broad of bulk; A caddie who gets playing with your clubs upon the sly; A caddie who will chatter, or a caddie who will sulk; All these are calculated a golf devotee to try; All these are most vexatious to a golfer of repute; And still more so to a novice. But just take a friendly hint!
Take a caddie who's a duffer, or a drunkard, or a brute, _But never try a caddie with a squint!!!_
[Illustration:
ANOTHER LENTEN SACRIFICE.--_Golf Caddie (to Curate)._ "High tee, sir?"
_Curate._ "No; put it on the ground. I give up sand during Lent."]
[Illustration:
_Voice from the Hill._ "Now then, you young coward, don't stand about all day. Why don't you _take it away_ from the dog?"]
[Illustration:
_Boy (to young lady, who has been unfortunate enough to upset Colonel Bunker)._ "You'd better ride on before 'e gets 'is breath, miss!"
_Young Lady._ "Why?" _Boy._ "_I've 'eard 'im play golf!!!_"]
A GROWL FROM GOLFLAND
Bores there are of various species, of the platform, of the quill, Bores obsessed by Christian Science or the Education Bill, But the most exasperating and intolerable bore Is the man who talks of nothing but the latest "rubber core."
Place him in the Great Sahara, plant him on an Arctic floe, Or a desert island, fifteen thousand miles from Westward Ho!
Pick him up a twelvemonth later, and I'll wager that you find Rubber filling _versus_ gutty still and solely on his mind.
O American invaders, I accept your beef, your boots, Your historical romances, and your Californian fruits; But in tones of humble protest I am tempted to exclaim, "Can't you draw the line at commerce, can't you spare one British game?"
I am but a simple duffer; I am quite prepared to state That my lowest round on record was a paltry 88; That my partner in a foursome needs the patience of a Job, That in moments of excitement I am apt to miss the globe.
With my brassy and my putter I am very far to seek, Generally slice to cover with my iron and my cleek; But I boast a single virtue: I can honestly maintain I've escaped the fatal fever known as Haskell on the brain.
[Illustration:
A golf case was recently before the Court of Appeal. Why not a Golf Court on the links?]
GOLF VICTOR!
Sir Golf and Sir Tennis are fighting like mad-- Now Sir Tennis is blown, and Sir Golf's right above him, And his face has a look that is weary and sad, As he hastily turns to the ladies who love him, But the racket falls from him, he totters, and swirls, As he hears them cry, "Golf is the game for the girls!"
The girls crave for freedom, they cannot endure To be cramped up at tennis in courts that are poky And they are all of them certainly, perfectly sure That they'll never again touch "that horrible croquet,"
Where it's quite on the cards that they may play with papa, And where all that goes on is surveyed by mamma,
To golf on the downs for the whole of the day Is "so awfully jolly," they keep on asserting, With a good-looking fellow to teach you the way, And to fill up the time with some innocent flirting, And it may be the maiden is woo'd and is won, Ere the whole of the round is completed and done.
Henceforward, then, golf is the game for the fair-- At home, and abroad, or in pastures colonial, And the shouts of the ladies will quite fill the air For the links that will turn into bonds matrimonial, And for husbands our daughters in future will seek With the powerful aid of the putter and cleek!
[Illustration: Finis]
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRIDGE.