My ANGELINA once enjoyed
The mild lawn-tennis all the day,
And did not scorn to be employed
In croquet's unexciting fray;
O truly happy seasons, when
I think of you, I wish you back,
For ANGELINA had not then
Become a golfing maniac!
But now of none of these she thinks,
All such pursuits she reckons "slow,"
And spends the days upon the links,
Where nevermore I mean to go:
For I recall the heartless snubs,
Which those enchanting lips let fall,
When I demolished several clubs,
And lost my temper, and the ball.
To-day the fickle maid prefers
With young MACDUFF to pass her time,
Because his "putting," she avers--
Whatever that be--"is sublime;"
And when I get a chance to state
The deep affection felt by me,
She interrupts me to relate
How well she did that hole in three!
I love my ANGELINA still,
Yet he who chose her as a wife
Would be expected to fulfil
A caddie's duties all his life;
So, if I turn away instead,
You will not hold me much to blame?
How _can_ I woo her? She is wed
Already--to this awful game!
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[Illustration: EXPERTO CREDE.
_Corporal M'Taggart, of the Nairn and Elgin Highlanders (to
Photographer)._ "HECH MON, YE'LL NEEVER HIT US THAT GAIT,--YE'RE NO
ALLOWIN' FOR WINDAGE!"]
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