W. BOYNTON
Wake! for the sun has driven in equal flight
The stars before him from the Tee of Night,
And holed them every one without a miss,
Swinging at ease his gold-shod Shaft of Light.
Now the fresh Year, reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Pores on this Club and That with anxious eye,
And dreams of Rounds beyond the Rounds of Liars.
Come, choose your ball, and in the Fire of Spring
Your Red Coat, and your wooden Putter fling;
The Club of Time has but a little while
To waggle, and the Club is on the swing.
Whether at Musselburgh or Shinnecock,
In motley Hose or humbler motley Sock,
The Cup of Life is ebbing Drop by Drop,
Whether the Cup be filled with Scotch or Bock.
A Bag of Clubs, a Silver-Town or two,
A Flask of Scotch, a Pipe of Shag--and Thou
Beside me caddying in the Wilderness--
Ah, Wilderness were Paradise enow.
They say the Female and the Duffer strut
On sacred Greens where Morris used to put;
Himself a natural Hazard now, alas!
That nice hand quiet now, that great Eye shut.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118