 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
69
GOLF
A Song of Life and Golf
The thing they ca' the stimy o't,
I find it ilka where!
Ye 'maist lie deid—an unco shot—
Anither's ba' is there!
Ye canna win into the hole,
However gleg ye be,
And aye, where'er ma ba' may roll,
Some limmer stimies me!
Chorus—Somebody stimying me,
Somebody stimying me,
The grass may grow, the ba' may row,
Some limmer stimies me!
I find it ilka where!
Ye 'maist lie deid—an unco shot—
Anither's ba' is there!
Ye canna win into the hole,
However gleg ye be,
And aye, where'er ma ba' may roll,
Some limmer stimies me!
Chorus—Somebody stimying me,
Somebody stimying me,
The grass may grow, the ba' may row,
Some limmer stimies me!
I lo'ed a lass, a bonny lass,
Her lips an' locks were reid;
Intil her heart I couldna pass:
Anither man lay deid!
He cam' atween me an' her heart,
I turned wi' tearfu' e'e;
I couldna loft him, I maun part,
The limmer stimied me!
Her lips an' locks were reid;
Intil her heart I couldna pass:
Anither man lay deid!
He cam' atween me an' her heart,
I turned wi' tearfu' e'e;
I couldna loft him, I maun part,
The limmer stimied me!
70
I socht a kirk, a bonny kirk,
Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a';
A bonny yaird to feed a stirk,
An' links to ca' the ba'!
Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched—
A Convartit U.P.—
An' a' in vain ma best I preached,
That limmer stimied me!
Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a';
A bonny yaird to feed a stirk,
An' links to ca' the ba'!
Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched—
A Convartit U.P.—
An' a' in vain ma best I preached,
That limmer stimied me!
It's aye the same in life an' gowf;
I'm stimied, late an' ear';
This world is but a weary howf,
I'd fain be itherwhere.
But whan auld deith wad hole ma corp,
As sure as deith ye'll see
Some coof has played the moudiewarp,
Rin in, an' stimied me!
Chorus (if thought desirable).
I'm stimied, late an' ear';
This world is but a weary howf,
I'd fain be itherwhere.
But whan auld deith wad hole ma corp,
As sure as deith ye'll see
Some coof has played the moudiewarp,
Rin in, an' stimied me!
Chorus (if thought desirable).
71
Ode to Golf
‘Delusive nymph, farewell!’
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell’,
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell’,
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft beside the burn,
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've ‘topped and swore’,
In bent and whin and fern!
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've ‘topped and swore’,
In bent and whin and fern!
Yes, when the broken head
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred.
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred.
72
In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw’,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan.
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw’,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan.
Yet, nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown.
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown.
So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the gray, sad sea.
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the gray, sad sea.
73
Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf
There are laddies will drive ye a ba'
To the burn frae the farthermost tee;
But ye mauna think driving is a’,
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
To the burn frae the farthermost tee;
But ye mauna think driving is a’,
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
The auld folk are crouse, and they craw
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt—ony she,—
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean;
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt—ony she,—
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean;
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
74
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw,
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen—
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen—
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
Envoy
Prince, faith you're improving a wee,And, Lord, man! they tell me you're keen;
Tak' the best o' advice that can be,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
75
Off my Game
‘I’m off my game,' the golfer said,
And shook his locks in woe;
‘My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand—
I'm off my game!
And shook his locks in woe;
‘My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand—
I'm off my game!
‘Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
I'm off my game!
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
I'm off my game!
76
‘Why is it that I play at all?
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
I'm off my game!
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
I'm off my game!
I hate the sight of all my set,
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting's wild or tame;
It's really time for me to stop—
I'm off my game.’
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting's wild or tame;
It's really time for me to stop—
I'm off my game.’
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |