FORE the Ages
(Golf History)

Scottish Golf Traditions - Golfer's special talents aren't necessarily confined to the game itself

by Trevor W. Jackson

Over the centuries, the game of golf has caused many a would- be wordsmith to create some wonderful poetry and on occasion, exceed the truth by taking advantage of poetic license.

A good example of this genre can be found in "Epitaph for a Golfer." This anonymous reverie is loosely based on the classic poem by Robert Louis Stevenson, who penned his personal epitaph on the island of Samoa, where these lines are carved on his tombstone.

 

Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

 

This be the verse you 'grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be.

Home is the sailor, home from the sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

 

This widely published verse was popular in Stevenson's Scotland and a later version appeared, penned no doubt at the end of a particularly unremarkable round of golf.

EPITAPH FOR A GOLFER Under the wide and open sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Gladly I've lived and gladly die, Away from this world of strife.   This be the epitaph for me: Here he lies where he longed to be. Lies in death by the nineteenth tee, Where he lied all through his life!

 

So, long before radio, television and the internet would occupy the golfer after his round, the Scottish pioneers of the game would while away the long winter nights creating some of the earliest written evidence of the game's endless appeal.

Some poems are comical, others inspirational, referring to the frustrations, the social camaraderie, sportsmanship and healthy pleasure of the game. Here are some of the best known to intrigue the avid golfer in 1997, hundreds of years later.

 

ADIEU TO ST. ANDREWS

St. Andrews! they say that thy glories are gone

That thy streets are deserted, thy castles overthrown;

If thy glories be gone, they are only, methinks,

As it were, by enchantment, transferred to thy Links.

Though thy streets be not, as of yore, full of prelates,

Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots,

Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers,

When we say that instead there are Links full of Golfers,

With more of good heart and good feeling among them

'Than the abbots, the monks, and the zealots who sung them;

We have red coats and bonnets, we've putters and clubs;

The green has its bunkers, its hazards, and rubs;

At the long hole anon we have biscuits and beer,

And the Hebes who sell it give zest to the cheer;

If this makes not up for the pomp and the splendour

Of mitres, and murders, and mass - we'll surrender;

If Golfers and caddies be not better neighbours

'Than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres,

Let such fancies remain with the fool who thinks,

While we toast old St. Andrews, its Golfers, and Links.

George Fullarton Carnegie of Pitarrow (1813)

 

'Of rural diversions too long has the chace

All the honours usurped, and asumm'd the chief place;

But truth bids the Muse from henceforward proclaim

That Golf, first of Sports, shall stand foremost in fame.'

 

"O'er the heath, see our heroes in uniform clad,

In parties well matched, how they gracefully spread;

While with long strokes and short strokes they tend to the goal,

And with putt well directed plump into the hole.'

'Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame,

Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game.

A sport so distinguished the Fair must approve:

Then to golf give the day, and the ev'ning to love.'

 

Royal Blackheath Golf Club (1793)

 

GROANS OF AN IRISH CADDIE

[Air, "Wearin' of the Green"]

Oh! Paddy dear, an' did ye hear

The news that's in the pubs?

Them golfers is removin'

All the shamrocks with their clubs.

The puttin' grass, so nately swep,

Is nowhere to be seen,

For the mischiefs in that mashie-club

That's rippin' up the green.

I met with Arty Balfour,

An 'he tuk me by the hand,

An'sez he-"I've sliced the soil my sel'

So, shure, I onderstand."

It's the most uprippit coun-thery

That iver yit was seen:

From Dollymount to swate Portrush

They're wearin' out the green.

Oh! some in coats o' cruel red,

An' some in tartan knicks

And some wid ties o'chaney blue,

Bud all o' thim with sticks.

An' they batthers at a weenie ball

That's lyin' on the sod,

An' hits it-no! they hammers it,

An' digs out pounds of clod.

 

If the ball wint wid the surface thin

Thern two'd complate the scene-

But no! it's sleepin' where it lay

Like a mishroon, white an' clean.

It's the most uprotted coun-thery

That iver yit was seen:

From Aughnacloy to Kinengar

They're slicin' off the green.

They comes wid drivers, cleeks, an' spoons,

An' clubs o' quarest name,

An' they calls a hape o' sand their tay,

Bud it's whishky that they mane.

An' they calls the sods they're flitterin' out

Big "divots" as they fly.

For they can't spake dacent

English.

Like yirsilf, Paudeen an' I.

Oh! who's to save poor Oireland

Whin they've sthript our Emerald Queen,

An' nothing's left bud bogs and rocks

Contagious

to be seen

In the most un-grass-ful con-threy

That iver yit has been-

Augh! divil take that mashie-stick,

For it's KILLIN' out the green.

 

LIMERICK

1) Town in S.W. Ireland

2) Refrain containing a nonsense poem of the five Anapestic Lines, now often bawdy, usually with the rhyme scheme A-A-B-B-A. The 1st, 2nd and 5th lines having 3 stresses, the 3rd and 4th lines, 2 stresses.

Example:

A-There was a young lady name Harris,

A-Whom nothing could ever embarrass.

B-Till the bath salts one day

B-In the tub where she lay,

A-Turned out to be plaster of paris.

This form of jocular, popular comedy was made famous by Edward Lear, (1812-88) English humorist and painter.

 

Some examples of golfer's limericks:

 

A-There once was a golfer, so strong

A-That his drives were incredibly long,

B-But when he took his putter,

B-They all heard him mutter,

A-I wish this was only a song.

 

A-There once was a golfer so tough,

A-He was often found in the rough,

B-So, when he took his putter,

B-They all heard him mutter,

A-"This is the one I might muff!"

 

A-And when on the last green you stride,

A-You must do so with undeniable pride.

B-And then from the cup

B-You pick the ball up,

A-And win the cup for your side!

 

So, to all you poets out there, let's have your offerings of a golfing limerick - we may publish a really great one!

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Trevor W. Jackson a noted golf historian focuses on preservation of the history of the Royal and Ancient Game. As President of G.M.I., Trevor specializes in international golf real estate development, management and off-shore financial investments. He can be reached at 561-848-9052.