It was a joy to be alive,
When I could always see
My golf-ball, from a slashing drive,
Go soaring off the tee;
When, as my lowered handicap
Fell ever nearer scratch,
I held my own with any chap
In medal play and match.
Then foozles never made me groan;
Then, gripping like a vise,
I swung my club; then all unknown
Were top and pull and slice;
Then all my deft approaches sped
Directly to their goal;
Then all my longest putts lay dead,
Or fell into the hole.
Oh! cruel Fate that bade me look,
On one ill-omened day,
Upon the pictures in the book
Of Vardon's hints on play!
For, though I quickly laid it by,
That one unlucky dip
Into its pages made me try
The overlapping grip.
Now all my fingers are like thumbs,
My club turns round and round;
And divots, as it downward comes,
Fly upward from the ground.
My golf-ball skips to right or left
A few short yards and stops;
Or, with its surface deeply cleft,
Into a bunker drops.
And though I swear and fume and fret,
My efforts are in vain;
And, what is worse, I cannot get
The old style back again.
So now with sighs and tears and frowns
I curse the diagrams
That cost me numberless half-crowns,
And ah! so many--regrettable comments.
_Punch._