Fore - Golf Poetry - GolfBlogger Golf Blog

FORE

UPONNE ye tee ye Golfer standes,
A cruclle Driver in hys handes,
Wherewith he means toe smite ye Balle,
That there soe harmlesse lyes & smalle.
It is hys Hope to lightlie playe
Over ye Hilles & far awaye.

With firme resolve hys Staunce he takes
& eke a mightie swingynge makes.
Ye Balle, scarce hurtte, skippes merrilie
Straighte toe ye Bunker from ve Tee.
Ye Golfer is of sorrie mien,
A frowne uponne hys Browe is seen;
Hys wordes, notte often used in printe,
Wille give one of hys Moode a hinte.

He sourlie toe ye Bunker goes,
Whereinne hys Balle hath founde repose.
Thryce doth he stryve toe loft ye sphere,
But Sande and Gravclle interfere.
Ye Balle, unscathed, serenclie lyes.
Toe mocke ye Man his angrie eyes.

Butte every Balle must have its daye.
Atte last ye sphere hath sped awaye ;
& now ye Golfer, blithe of hearte,
Thinks he hath wonne a goodlie starte.
But sad toe telle, he findes hys Balle
Hidynge behind a Tar-weed talle.

He maye notte lifte, he must notte break
Ye weede, for verie pitie sake.
Hys frenzied stroke removes ye Weede,
Butte slight hys profite, sore hys neede ;
Ye Balle, bewitched, proceeds toe rolle
Fulle 7 feete intoe a hole,
A hole that yawnes both deepe & wide,
With Weede and Gritte on evrie side.

A stroke is wasted onne ye grounde,
A seconde, ere ye Balle is founde.
He roundlie chydes ye Prince of Sportes,
Then toe hys Brassey he resortes.
Ye Balle flyes far, ye Balle flyes faste,
Untille ye Puttynge Green be paste;
Butte hys approache is true and straighte ;
Hys soul of gloome is now elate.
Like anie Cocke he seemes to strutte,
For he hath holed a tenne inche Putt.

Tho' fickle Fortune he invokes,
Ye nexte is made in 13 strokes.
Yet onne and onne hys Course he wendes,
Foul Luck, notte faire, hys playe attendes.
Hole after Hole is rudelie loste.
Yet stayes he notte to counte ye coste.

Alle thro ye sultrie Afternoone
He knowes hys Starre will rise oftsoone;
Nor hath hys golfynge ardor waned
Untille ye 18th Hole is gained.
Ye score doth show with rude dispatche
Howe he hath more than mette hys matche.
Thus blue of Minde & wearied sore,
He seeks ye cosie Club once more.

Well may ye carpynge critic aske,
Why he performes soe harde a taske;
& hath ye Pastime syne a name —
'Tis Golfe, anne Anciente Scottish game.

Benj. Aymar, in Lyrics of the Links, published in 1921.