Stow The Sticks - Golf Poetry

STOW THE STICKS 

WHEN Autumn's chill is o'er the land, 
And maple leaves are turning gold ; 
When coal trucks are on every hand, 
And Summer's radiant tale is told ; 

When steam first crackles through the pipe. 
And geese fly southward day by day ; 
When hunters trek the fen for snipe, 
Then, golfers, stow your sticks away. 

When days are short and nights are long. 
And sweethearts hover 'round the grate; 
Wlien winds no longer croon a song, 
But shriek in tones that irritate; 

When Summer drinks have disappeared. 
And rye and bourbon hold full sway ; 
When stalwart trees stand gaunt and seared, 
Then, golfers, stow your sticks away. 

Just bid the caddie sad farewell. 
And in your lockers put away 
The pristine balls, that eke would tell 
The splendid scores you did not play; 

Go, golfers, get an ample stock 
Of rock-and-rye without delay; 
Then get your blanket out of hock, 
And stow your golfing sticks away. 

C. P. McDonald

from Lyrics of the Links, 1921

Although I never actually stow the sticks, I appreciate the sentiments in this poem. With freezing temperatures and the accompanying snow here in Michigan, I reach the point where I am thrilled if I can get out once a week or so.