
IF GRAY HAD BEEN A GOLFERBENEATH these rugged elms, that maple's shade,
The place heaves the turf in lots of a mouldering heap,
Every in his final everlasting bunker laid,
The impolite forefathers of the hamlet sleep.Oft to the harvest did their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the cussed glebe has broke;
Ah, however they'd no mashies then to wield.
They by no means discovered to make use of the Vardon stroke.The poor previous souls ! They solely lived to toil.
To sow and reap and die, eventually, obscure;
They by no means with their niblick tore the soil —
How unhappy the golfless annals of the poor !The pomp of energy might as soon as have thrilled the souls
Of unenlightened males — at present it sinks
Beneath the saving grace of eighteen holes !
The paths of glory lead however to the hyperlinks.Maybe on this uncared for spot is laid
Some coronary heart that may have quickened to the sport;
Arms that the beautiful baffy may need swayed,
To Colonel Bogey's eternal disgrace.Full many a gap was handed by them unseen.
As a result of no fluttering flag was hoisted there ;
Full many a easy and sacred placing inexperienced
They tore up with the plough, and did not care.Some village Taylor, that with dauntless breast
Might whang the flail or swing the heavy maul ;
Some mute inglorious Travis right here might relaxation,
Some Harriman who by no means misplaced a ball.Removed from the keen foursome's noble strife
They levelled bunkers and so they piled the hay,
Content material to go uncaddied all by means of life.
And by no means had been two up and one to play !No additional search their hardships to reveal,
Nor stand in surprise at their lack of price ;
Right here in these bunkers let their mud repose ;
They did not know St. Andrews' was on earth.S. E. Riser.
Photograph Credit score: Previous Course by Darrin Antrobus, CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0, by way of Wikimedia Commons
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