'Tis a brilliant autumn day,
And the breeze has blown away
All the clouds that lowered gray;
So methinks,
As I've half an hour to spare,
I will go and take the air,
While the weather still is fair,
On the Links.
I admire the splendid view,
The delicious azure hue
Of the ocean and--when, _whew_!
With a crack,
Lo! there drops a little ball
Which elects to break its fall
By alighting on the small
Of my back.
In the distance someone cries
Some remark about my eyes,
None too pleasant, I surmise,
From the tone;
So away my steps I turn
Till a figure I discern,
Who is mouching by the burn
All alone.
He has lost a new "Eclipse,"
And a little word that slips
From his sulky-looking lips
Tells me true
That, besides the missing ball,
Which is gone beyond recall,
He has lost--what's worst of all--
Temper, too.
I conclude it will be best
If I leave him unaddressed,
Such a melancholy quest
To pursue;
And I pass to where I spy
Clouds of sand uprising high
Till they all but hide the sky
From the view.
They proceed, I understand,
From a bunker full of sand,
Where a golfer, club in hand,
Freely swears
As he hacks with all his might,
Till his countenance is quite
As vermilion as the bright
Coat he wears.
I observe him for a while
With a highly-tickled smile,
For it is the queerest style
Ever seen:
He is very short and stout,
And he knocks the ball about,
But he never gets it out
On the green.
Still I watch him chop and hack,
Till I hear a sudden crack,
And the club-head makes a track
In the light--
There's a startled cry of "FORE!"
As it flies, and all is o'er!--
I remember nothing more
Till to-night,
When I find myself in bed
With a lump upon my head
Like a penny loaf of bread;
And methinks,
For the future I'll take care
When I want a little air,
That I won't go anywhere
Near the Links.
[Illustration: Punch]
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[Illustration: