A Golfing Idyll Part 2

Belief in succour still remained, The distant life-boat hope sustained.

So, stranded in this awful hole, I turned to Heaven to save my soul.

I prayed, beseeched the powers on high, To help me in my agony.

I prayed, as ne'er I prayed before; In anguish keen I vowed and swore, This trouble gone, this sorrow ended, My wicked life should be amended; This struggle o'er, this combat pa.s.sed, This drucken bout should be my last.

Then hope, sweet hope, began to flow, And swell my breast with genial glow; Self-trust and courage that had gane Wi' fiery rush, cam' back again.

My native pride, love o' the game, Blazed in my heart like altar flame.

I felt that tho' a fool I'd been, I still could battle for the green.

Resolved, restored, I rose defiant, O'er doubts and fears I sprang triumphant.

'Clootie,' says I, as cool and cheeky As lawyer lad frae gude Auld Reekie, 'I'm willin' to resume the game, A stroke a hole, and terms the same.

But had I kent what I ken noo, And sober been, instead o' fou, I'd seen you fried in your ain brimstane Ere I had linked to sic a bargain.

A bargain ca' it, wi' changed condeetions That won't admit of defineetions.

The man I bargained wi', in boots, Is now a beast wi' tail and cloots, And----'

'Confound your cheek, you old transgressor, You phrase and jaw like a Professor.

Enough of all this d--d palaver, Your blasted bletherin' and haver.

My tail, it is a thing of beauty, By Jove, you'll find it do its duty.

Between us you will see such golf, Ere long you'll cry "I've had enough."

Then tee your ball, resume your game, Strike off once more for purse and fame.'

But Skipper, pause and kindly tell us About that tail, it is so curious.

Why, Jock, the thocht o't gars me scunner, With it he dealt me sic dishonour.

Albeit, it was indeed a stunner, I canna think o't without wunner.

It was at least a fathom lang, And tapered, at the end a stang Like harpoon dart or arrow head, Glittering and gleaming fiery red.

'Twas nae doot gey thick at the root, But that was covered by his coat.

So soople, he could gi'e a skelp wi't, Could licht his pipe, or pick his teeth wi't; And at his pleasure, short or lang, It telescoped up to the stang.

Besides it was a choice dumb caddie, And quite as helpful as a laddie, By his left side he made it swirl Around his clubs, like snake to twirl.

They stood erect quite near and handy As 'neath the arm o' Jock or Sandy.

To see him like a puddock squattin', His tail stiff oot, the sod pat, pattin', Viewing his putt to find the line, 'Twas enough to mak' a cuddy grin.

There was little grin in me that mornin', I wasna in a mood for scornin'.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The game I was about to witness, It wasna in my power to compa.s.s.

My fears they soon were realised, And my poor play that I so prized I saw eclipsed and beaten hollow-- A bitter pill for me to swallow.

Hole after hole he stole away, With masterly and brilliant play.

And ever and anon he jeered me, And with his cursed tail he skeered me.

That tail! It curled and squirmed and gleamed, The stang it glowed, red-hot it seemed; Whate'er it touched it brunt and bristled, The very sod it scorched and frizzled.

I played my best, I strove and swat; Wha could contend 'gainst foe like that?

A stroke a hole, what use to me Against a Deil who averaged three?

Gude three-score years I'd kent the green, And many a gallant match I'd seen, Lang, lang before I was a caddie, When golfin' daft a fisher laddie.

Wi' keen delight I still remember The glorious gatherin's o' September, When eager golfers came to seek, And share the joys o' 'Medal Week.'

They mustered strong, a manly band.

The wale o' gentry o' the land; Among them golfers known to fame, Old hands, scratch players o' the game, The Woods, Sir Hope, the gallant Grant; That swiper grand, R. Oliphant; Pattullo, Stirling, Messieux, Condie, Holcroft, Playfair, Haig, and Fairlie; Sir David Baird, Sir Ralph Anstruther, All players stout, and many another; Forby of course, a wheen o' duffers, Second fiddles, middlin' golfers, Most worthy men, but poor performers, Like Mr Patton, Puddle Mudie, Or cheery Small, the laird o' Foodie; The rattlin' red-nosed Craigie Halket; Flash Jim, the swell, for slang and racket; Clanra.n.a.ld, spruce, the tartan dandy, And, 'dem it,' sweet as sugar candy; Mount Melville's laird, aye debonair, True gentleman beyond compare; Dundas, Gillespie, Wemyss, and Craigie, Pitarro's bard, the wag Carnegie, And stalwart Saddle, big and burly, Tho' grim his look, he ne'er was surly, 'Twas he that swore or e'en pretended That nature's laws were clean suspended (Save us, mortals, sic a shame!) To 'spite and spoil _his_ little game!!'

Of handsome men a grand display, As rarely seen on Summer's day.

Kilgraston's sons, Sir Frank the chief, Falkland, Charlton, and Moncrieff; And mony mair o' birth and name That came to view the Royal game.

Blythe Allan then was in his prime, The finest player o' his time.

Tom Morris, too, a lad of twenty, Ere long renowned for honours plenty, Good player still, an honest man, As ever lifted club in han', Long may he live the green to guard, And at his pleasure sand the sward, And when at last 'neath sod he's landed, Wi' blessings may his grave be sanded.

And ither lads, professionals o' mark, Kirks, Straths, and Pirie, Herds, and Park; Besides a lot I canna' mind, All clever players o their kind.

But ne'er a one a club could handle, Play sic a game, or haud the candle, To that auld limb o' sin, the rip, Who had me in his ugly grip.

Frae the 'Hole Across' in 'h.e.l.l' he landed, That I foresaw it was intended.

As I gaed by I heard him laughin', And with the little deils a-daffin'.

I fondly hoped he'd come to grief, And with hole or half I'd get relief; But no such luck, alas for me, For again he nailed the hole in three!

The next three holes he did in seven, And, Heaven preserve me, we were even!

My eight holes gane, the game a' square, Oh, Jock, I shuddered in despair.

What skill o' mortal could prevail Against a foe wi' cloots and tail!

The tail it now was blazin' red, And from the point bright sparks it shed, And squirmed and curled as if wi' glee, Possessed wi' joy at leatherin' me.

Tremblin', abashed, depressed, I stood; My threatened fate, it chilled my blood, Cold swat bedewed me, froze my marrow, I felt like puddock 'neath a harrow, Or thief that views the rope a danglin'

Prepared and ready for his stranglin'.

The morning breeze blew cool and free, Sweet, fresh, and caller frae the sea; The sun, with ruddy cheek, had risen Not long from forth his watery prison; The strand was bathed with golden light, And all was beautiful and bright.

As for auld Sin, he stood serene, He little cared to view the scene.

His arms were crossed, one hand on chin, And on his face sardonic grin.

With keen and glittering eye he viewed me, And seemed to look right thro' and thro' me, My poor heart throbbing with affright, Full well he gauged my sorry plight.

'Skipper,' quoth he, 'how dost thou feel?

You've had your tussle with the Deil; Hast got a lesson, eh, in Golf?

Just one hole more and then--enough!

I've seen your swagger, heard your boast, Methinks I've got you now--on toast.'

Oh, Jock, so horrible his smile, Just like a loathsome crocodile, Wi' sea-green een, and dreadfu' sn.i.g.g.e.r, About to supper on a n.i.g.g.e.r!

Cool and composed I tried to look, As calm as might an aged rook On tree top perched, or giddy mast Exposed to wild and stormy blast; But still a shadowy hope remained By my late fervent vow sustained, That should the powers aboon preserve me, Good play or fickle fortune save me, To mend my life I would endeavour, And cursed drink forswear for ever.

'Satan, you say, I'm yours to roast; But you prefer me served on toast, Like a fat kidney fried wi' bacon, You'll find me teugh or I'm mistaken.

The honour's great, the compliment I feel, To be a chosen t.i.t-bit for the Deil.

But michty strange it seems to be, Sic honour should be kept for me, When you might have made selection From swells and sinners o' distinction: Ginerals, Cornels, and sodger gentry; Gude kens! there's wale o' them and plenty!

'Mong Clairgy, Lawyers, and Professors, Poor folk in trade, and sma' transgressors.

Save us man! You micht hae grippet A Provost wi' an ermine tippet, Or eke a consequential Bailie, Or Councillor fu' wise and wily.

Instead, to nab a poor auld caddie, 'Twas _mean_,' I tell't him, Jock Pitbladdie.

'c.o.c.ksure you hae me in your grip-- There's mony a slip 'tween cup and lip.

Eneugh! I'm weary and half dead, Lost or saved, I maun win hame to bed.'

At my free speech old Sooty growled, And at me glared malevolent and scowled; Then tee'd wi' care, his ball addressed, And stood a golfer grand confessed.

Oh, Jock, I think I see him yet; That scene I never can forget, Broad-shouthered, slight o' powerful bield, Long-armed, lean-shankit, strapping chield; His fearfu' tail, red, stiff, and stark, And at the end the gleamin' spark!

Gudesake, to think the Prince o' H--l, At oor grand game should bear the bell!

He drove a long, low ripping shot, O'er brig and road to the green he got.

I followed true, for me right good, But, alas, I landed on the road!

My heart it sank, but I lay clean, For muckle waur I might hae been.

I took my cleek--Oh, blessed happy lick!

Home went the ball fornent the stick, Dead as a corp, or Julius Caesar, Baalam's a.s.s, or Nebuchenezzar.

Forward I ran, richt eager, to the green To see how good my luck had been.

Fortune indeed had smiled upon me, I lay a dead and perfect stymie!

Auld Sin he looked as black as thunder To be so foiled, I dinna wonder.

I sprang wi' glee, and gied a howl,-- 'I've stymed the Deil and saved my sowl!'

'Villain!' he roared, 'You sot, you've done me, My malison and curse be on ye!'

With that he struck me wi' his tail Right on the stern, just like a flail, So cruel, strong, severe a lounder, In faith it felled me flat's a flounder.