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The Golfer’s Wife

March 7, 2011 by 1 Comment

If you search this blog, using “Wife” as the search term, you will find five Posts that one way or another characterize the golfer’s wife of about 100 years ago. In these early days when golf was becoming popular and affordable the men played and for the most part their wives did not. A popular description of such wives was (and still is) “golf widows.” Yesterday, while searching through a Google book called Humours of the Fray by Charles L. Graves (published in London in 1907) I found yet another poem with the subject as its title, “The Golfer’s Wife.”

As is often true in these poems, the golfer himself is subject to the poet’s ridicule, while the wife though suffering is clearly the “hero.”

THE  GOLFER’S WIFE

OF  perfect stamina possessed,
From centenarians descended,
Jones spends his lifetime in the quest
Of health-although his health is splendid.
Last year he throve upon a fare
Which  now he views with utter loathing,
And monthly he elects to wear
New hygienic underclothing.

His doctors order exercise,
Fresh air and healthy recreation;
And Jones assiduously tries
To combat physical stagnation.
Llandrindod welcomes him to-day,
To-morrow Droitwich  lures him brinewards;
Next week ’tis Bath, or Alum Bay,
Or  Bournemouth,  and he hurries pinewards.

At scholarship inclined to scoft,
Yet  fond of neither dogs nor horses,
Upon his diet and his golf
Jones focusses his mental forces ;
Unmoved by mountain  peaks sublime,
Or  ‘mid the most enchanting  greenery,
Because he’s musing all the time
On  his inside, and not the scenery.

To travel with this fearsome freak,
This  valetudinarian* loafer,  (*unhealthy)
I should decline, though for one week
He gave me all the gold of Ophir.
Yet  his self-sacrificing spouse,
All normal interests resigning,
Beneath her lifelong burden bows
Without  the semblance of repining.

With  him she trots from links to links,
Wearing  a smile of saintly meekness ;
With  him eternal cocoa drinks
Though  China tea’s her special weakness.
Nor  is her sympathy profound
Relaxed at luncheon or at dinner,
When  Jones reconstitutes each round,
And turns the tables on the winner.

Fine weather keeps him out of doors,
But when it rains or even drizzles
The  slightest moisture he abhors
Her fate is worse than patient Grizel’s*. (* A reference to the wife of Marc Antony)
For Jones exacts attentive  heed
To his malingering recital,
And poses as an invalid
When  Mrs. Jones deserves the title.

No chance of respite or reward
To her the future seems to offer,
Unless some random rubber-cored
Despatches this dyspeptic golfer.
Already shrunken  to a shred
By her devotion self-denying,
She perseveres, and when she’s dead
He’ll  blame her selfishness in dying.

Divines are wont  to disagree
Acutely in regard to Heaven,
Some doctors holding it to be
A single sphere, and others seven ;
But Jones’s consort entertains
No doubt about one crucial question ;
There will, upon the heav’nly plains,
Be neither golf nor indigestion.

Mr. Graves lived from 1856 to 1944. He was a prolific writer and poet. Among his books were a four volume set called Mr. Punch’s History of Modern England. Though I searched widely, I could find no other connections between Graves and golf beyond his poetry.

Filed Under: golf, golf history, golf humor, golf poetry, golf poetry books, humor, poetry, sports poetry Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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“He’ll yet a gowfer be.”

February 21, 2011 by 1 Comment


If you search my blog using the word “duffer” you will find 10 Posts out of a little over a hundred that include the term. Duffers are common on the golf course and in golf poetry as well. But what is the opposite of “duffer?” It might be the perfect golfer, except there are none. But that hasn’t stopped golf poets from musing about the possibility of playing perfect golf or what it might feel like to be a perfect golfer. In my book, Golf Course of Rhymes – Links between Golf and Poetry, I include several poems on golf perfection. I found another, this one on a duffer’s view of perfect golf, in a book called Divots for Dubs, privately published by J. Ellsworth Schrite in 1934.

The Par Buster

I pray that some day I might be,
Allowed to step up to the tee,
And there with all my friends to see,
I’d swing–so smooth and evenly
That they, who’ve seen me in disgrace,
Would marvel at my new-found grace.
And as the ball sailed straight and true,
I’d hear them murmur: “What hit you?”

With practiced calm I’d stand and stare,
And watch the ball sail thru the air.
And when it settled to the land,
My friends would grasp me by the hand
And mutter: “Gosh! I’ve never seen,
A drive hit so near the green.”
I wouldn’t strut–I’d trudge along,
Stilling my heart from its victory song.

My second, with an iron I’d hit,
With plenty of spin to make it “sit.”
Of course, I’d be allowed to grin,
When it rolled almost to the “pin.”
I wouldn’t have to use my putter,
For, “Pick it up”, I’d hear them mutter.
From every tee I’d drive them far,
On every green I’d laugh at par.

The rough, the traps, and all that stuff,
Would see that I was good enough
To guide my ball beyond their clutch,
I’d pass them by with hooks and such.
And when the course I’d travel o’er,
I’d let my caddy add the score.”
I wouldn’t faint nor shout with glee,
If he should look with awe at me.
But how we all would celebrate,
When he shouted–sixty-eight.

I wonder, would I lose the thrill,
Playing that well–perhaps I will.
Oh well, a day dream now and then,
Gives us hope–we try again.

So in the end it is not unreachable perfection, but the hope of getting better that drives us all. John Thomson, an Scottish lawyer, golfer and poet, put this idea to verse in 1893:

See yonder lads upon the links.
Go, find a duffer there but thinks,
For a'[all] the jeers and wylie winks,
He’ll yet a gowfer be.

Filed Under: golf, Golf Course of Rhymes, golf humor, golf poetry, golf poetry books, humor, poetry, Scotland, sports poetry Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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“St Andrew’s Law” by Robert Browning

February 7, 2011 by 3 Comments

Much of the golf poetry in this Blog is straight-forward. You read it once, understand what the poet is trying to convey and respond with some kind of thought or emotion . . . or not. For the most part, the best of the golf-poets of the past were entertaining verse-writers who on occasion reflected their feelings for the game poetically.

A few of these poets went beyond verse writing and wrote at what might be described as a higher level. Their poetry requires more careful reading (not necessarily what Blog readers are looking for), but such reading can also be rewarding. One such golf poet is Robert H. K. Browning, a writer, golf magazine editor and golf historian who was active in the first half of the 20th century. His poetry has been included in my last two Posts.

I found Browning’s poem, “St. Andrew’s Law,” sub-titled “(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling)”, in a book called On the Green edited by Samuel .J. Looker, published in 1922. The reason for “apologies” is that the poem is a parody of Kipling’s poem, “Poseidon’s Law.” Both poems include warnings about lying while recognizing the inherent inevitability of stretching the truth, whether in a sailor’s tavern or clubhouse bar. I hope you will take the time to read “St. Andrew’s Law” out-loud . . . to fully enjoy Browning’s humor, his keen understanding of golfers’ foibles and his poetic skills.

St Andrew’s Law

(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling)

When prehistoric swipers sliced, and blamed the sloping tee,
They got so riled, Saint Andrew smiled, and “Blasphemers,” said he,
“Henceforth the lightly made excuse shall give you no resource;
Ye may not win to act or use of falsehood on the course.

“Let Peter judge his fisher folk, whose unexamined scales
Their easy consciences provoke to all-unswallowed tales;
But ye the prickly whin shall test, the bunker shall condemn:
The gods of golfing love to jest–but do not jest with them.

“Ye may not hope with putts untrue to reach the narrow tin,
Nor cozen [bamboozle] of their lawful due the bunker and the whin,
Nor tempt with drives that are not straight the slice-avenging rough,
Nor keep your ‘good’ strokes from the fate of stokes not good enough.

“But since the twisting ball that’s bent before the rising wind
Must always meet its punishment to tell you ye have sinned,
Be yours the frank unwavering eye, the open soul that shrinks
From any though of rotten lie–while ye are on the links.”

About the rugged moorland track on which his course was laid
The cave-man kept the law intact–until his game was played;
But once the last short putt was holed to crown his heart’s desire,
Audaciously mendacious [duplicitous] strolled the cave-man to his fire.

The prehistoric head of flint adorns our clubs no more,
But still the new clubs drive a-squint, exactly as of yore;
The prehistoric stone is now the radium-centred ball,
But ah ! the prehistoric man has never changed at all.

And driven in by rain or sleet, or by the Evening Star,
He moistly occupies his seat beside the clubhouse bar
And as or yore around Stonehenge, when golf was in its youth,
The swiper takes his great revenge upon the gods of truth.

If you have the time, you might find it interesting to look at Kipling’s poem and see just how Browning went about transforming a poem about sailors to one about swipers. And here is a website for help in understanding Kipling’s lines. But don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz.

 

Filed Under: golf, golf history, golf humor, golf poetry, golf poetry books, humor, poetry, Scotland, sports poetry Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Browning, Wordsworth and the Rules of Golf

January 24, 2011 by Leave a Comment

As promised in my last Post, here is another poem written by Robert H. K. Browning, a golf writer, magazine editor, historian and poet of the first half of the 20th century. As a writer, Browning is most famous for his book, A History of Golf, first published in 1955 and still widely available.

Browning’s poem is titled “Wordsworth Re-worded.” On the surface, the poem is a reminder that your score, even on a meaningless hole, is governed by the rules of golf. Read the poem a couple of times and I’ll meet you below.

Wordsworth Re-Worded

An aged man,
Racked by a ceaseless cough,
And shivering in his wretched clothes,
What should he know of golf?

But when he saw me start to play
His sides he well nigh split;
He said, “I’ll take you round today
For the mere fun of it.” “

With strokes and misses, empty head,
How many have I had?” –
“You’ve taken seven to here,” he said.
His answer made me mad. “

And how d’ye think that that can be?” –
He answered, “Take my word;
Two strokes to knock it off the tee,
And bunkered from your third.

“And other two to get it out,
And also — here’s the rub —
Two more, because beyond a doubt
I saw you ground your club.”

“But this is not a match,” said I,
“For cups I do not strive;
And leaving out the penalty,
It seems I’ve taken five.”

“Two on the tee – and one – makes three” –
He checked them on his hand –
“Two to get out, and other two
For grounding in the sand.”

“But they don’t count; those two don’t count;
The slip must be forgiven.” –
Twas throwing words away, for still
That ancient man would have his will;
“I say you’ve taken seven.”

So, Browning’s poem leaves us with some questions. First, why the title with its reference to the famous romantic poet William Wordsworth (1770-1850)? Second, who is the “aged man?” Is he real or is the poem in some way about the conversation we have with ourselves when adding up the score during a bad hole? And third, did Browning really know a golfer who was this big a duffer? No doubt!

To answer the first question, we would need a Wordsworth scholar. From the title it would appear that the poem is a kind of a parody. Does anyone have any ideas? The aged or “ancient man” in the last stanza might represent the rule book which even a hundred years ago, when this poem was written, was old. The rules, as we have seen again recently, make no exceptions. Maybe Browning is using the poem to characterize the cruel reality of playing golf by the rules. What do you think? If you like, leave a comment as to how you read the poem.

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Golf Poetry by Robert H. K. Browning

January 10, 2011 by 1 Comment

Robert Browning (1812-1889) was a famous English poet. Robert H. K. Browning (1884-?) was a scholarly golf historian from Scotland who was the editor of  “Golfing,” the premier British golf periodical, from 1910 to 1955. H.K Browning’s major claim to fame is his book, “A History of Golf,” which the late Herbert Warren Wind described as “…far and away the finest one-volume history of golf.”

But like the earlier Browning, Robert H. K. Browning was also a poet, thought he limited his subject matter to golf. Samuel L. McKinlay, another noted Scottish golf writer, wrote in the Afterword to the Classics of Golf’s edition of Browning’s book:

One good critic thought Browning’s light verse among the best of his generation, but it was so widely scattered among different periodicals as to defy any attempt at collection.

McKinlay singled out “The Pilgrims’ Progress” as one of Browning’s longest and best poems. The poem “describes in rhymed couplets the exploits of four London golfers who set out ‘to golf all August around the North.'” McKinlay then provides what he described as “some lovely lines” from the poem:

Then off through Dirleton, cool and shady,
To Muirfield, Archerfield, Aberlady.
They golfed at Gullane, on ‘One’ and ‘Two’
They played Longniddry and Luffness New.

And at St. Andrews, they

Laughed in the ‘Beardies’, despaired in ‘Hell’,
But played the first and the last quite well.

McKinlay, being a West of Scotland man, cites his favorite lines,

Troon and Prestwick–Old and ‘classy’–
Bogside, Dundonald, Gailes, Barassie.

I wonder if anyone could provide me with a reference to the entire poem? But even just these few lines make me wish I could have tagged along with the London foursome.

In my next Post, in two weeks, I will return to Robert H. K. Browning’s golf poetry.

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“Golf Dings A'”

December 27, 2010 by Leave a Comment

This year  may not have been the greatest for golf, professional and otherwise, but it was a great year for golf poetry.  This Blog got more than 20,000 page views and the subject of golf poetry was featured in a May Wall St. Journal article.

Hopefully, 2011 will be an even bigger year with the publication of my book, Golf Course of Rhymes — Links Between Golf and Poetry Through the Ages, by Golfiana Press.

Some of the golf poetry of old was written by Scottish golfers who read or sung their poetry at club meetings. One of those golfers was David Jackson, Captain of the Thistle Golf Club, in Levin. He published his “songs and recitations” in a short book of 32 pages in 1886. Last August I wrote a Post that featured one of his poems. Jackson and the other club house poets wrote about golf with an enthusiasm, love and respect and a kind of innocence that was unique to that time. Jackson’s “Gouff Dings A'” loosely translated as “Golf Surpasses All” is a good example. Subtitled, “Sung at a Convivial Meeting,” here, to begin with, is the Chorus:

For Gouff dings a’, my boys, Gouff will aye ding a’
With joy we’ll swing our Clubs and Cleek, and drive the bounding Ba’;
Then over bunkers, braes (hills), and bent, we’ll gang (go) out twa (two) by twa,
With hearts elate and mind content–oh, Gouff dings a’.

And here are a few of the stanzas. Remember this was sung in the 1880’s:

Oh, hoo (how) are ye a’ the nicht (night), my friends? I hope I see ye weel (well),
Yer Clubs a’ in guid (good) order; yer Cleeks and Irons like steel.
I’ve just looked in for half-an-hour to ha’e a joke or twa
About our jolly game o’ Gouff–for Gouff dings a’.

…..Chorus

The Gouff belongs to Scotland, but its spreading sure and far;
You’ll find a Golfing-Course, my boys, wherever Scotsmen are;
In Africa,in India, in America, ’tis the same,
Australia and our Colonies pay homage to the game.

…..Chorus

King James the Fourth, he loved the game; but had to put it down,
In case his men forgot the way to fight for King and Crown.
No wonder that he banned it, boys–if a’ that’s said be true,
They played the game through a’ the week, and on the Sunday, too.

…..Chorus

I met a chap the other nicht, he was looking unco (strangely) blue;
Said I, “My boy, what can annoy a lively lad like you?”
“‘Tis a’ about the Golf,” he said, while tears ran ower his cheeks,
“The wife and I have had a row, and she’s burnt my Clubs and Cleeks.”

…..Chorus

Then, let us swell the mighty throng of Princes, Lords, and Kings
Who have enjoyed the game of Golf above all other things
And wish success to every one, let him be great or sma’,
Who loves the jolly game o’ Gouff–for Gouff dings a’.

So next Friday night when you “take a cup of kindness yet,/ for auld lang syne,” take one as well for  David Jackson and the game he describes so lovingly.

Filed Under: Australia, golf, golf course, Golf Course of Rhymes, golf history, golf humor, golf poetry, golf poetry books, golf songs, Johnny Cash, poetry, Scotland, sports poetry Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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Another Poem for a Winter’s Day

December 13, 2010 by Leave a Comment

Last December I published a post titled “Golf Poetry for a Winter’s Day.” It included a poem called “Retrospection.” If you want a succinct description of the essence of golf, I encourage you to click here and read (better recite) the last two stanzas.

This December’s poem for a winter’s day is called “A Dirge for Summer.” It was written by Robert Risk, a Scottish poet and golfer, and appeared in his book, Songs of the Links, published in 1919.

A DIRGE FOR SUMMER

Gone are the days when by the swinging sea
We lounged and smoked between two sunny rounds,
Gone are the times of loitering by the tee;
The summer has been driven out of bounds–
No penalty is writ in white and black,
Whereby we are allowed to call it back.

Gone are the jocund evenings when we start,
High-tea’d and confident of light and weather,
Forgetful of the office and the mart,
Of debts and duns and the Golf-maniac’s blether;
Those perfect evenings, clear, and dry, and bright,
Have vanished wholly in the Ewigkeit. [eternity]

Gone is the crowd about the starter’s box,
And no one waits to-day at those short holes,
Where the procrastinating putter mocks
The men behind and harrows up their souls;
Void the grey town o’scarlet down and cleek
(I’ve half a mind to go there for a week).

For now, we must from Saturday to Saturday
Neglect our game–a week’s a weary time–
And each one brings a coorser and a watter day
(Kindly excuse a Caledonian rhyme),
For we are entered on the Golfer’s Lent,
The season of his deepest discontent.

Yet on the dim horizon looms afar,
No larger than the neatest niblick head,
A little scintillating, faithful star,
Though over all the heavens is darkness spread;
Through all the winter waste it sends a greeting,
The constellation of Next Year’s Spring Meeting.

When I read this poem it makes me think that over the last 100 years the game has changed much more than its players.

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Read Golf Poetry Out Loud!

November 29, 2010 by Leave a Comment

[Note: the picture is of Billy Collins, a former United States Poet Laureate and an avid golfer. If you ever have the chance to hear Professor Collins read his poetry out loud (he has two CDs out), you will be convinced quicky that poetry must be read out loud to be fully enjoyed.]

Though it is hard for me to believe, I have now been writing this Blog for almost two years. The Blog now includes more than 100 Posts and close to 100 golf poems. The good news is that golfers interested in finding poetry about golf are finding this site. The Blog has recorded more than 37,000 page views. The bad news is that the Blog is 100 years late in getting started. As I have mentioned in these pages, golf poetry was routinely included in all the golf magazines published early in the 20th century. And books of golf poetry were bought and enjoyed. Moreover, poetry was recited at club meetings by poetry writing members.

My purpose in writing this Blog has been to make this golf poetry of the past (and a few poems of the present) available to a generation of golfers who have had no access to this literature. But poetry, different than prose, puts an extra demand on its readers: it asks that you read it out loud. Though you are easily convinced that yelling “Fore” is a good idea when an errant ball is hit, you may be less sure about the value of reading poetry out loud. Even more so, when you rarely come across any kind of poetry, let alone golf poetry. So my only hope of convincing you may be  to write a poem with the right incentive:

READ GOLF POETRY OUT LOUD

Read golf poetry out loud,
It will lower your score;
And if one poem doesn’t do it,
Read two or three more!

If you believe all of those equipment ads, maybe this poem will work as well. But if not, search around the Blog and find a poem that appeals to you…and then gather up your courage and read it out loud. Maybe even more than once. I hope this exercise will convince you that reading poetry out loud adds greatly to your understanding and enjoyment of the poem. If you are inclined, leave a comment and let me know what you think.

Filed Under: golf, golf history, golf humor, golf poetry, golf poetry books, humor, poetry, sports poetry Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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An Australian Golf Poem from 1897

November 15, 2010 by 2 Comments

Last week I received an email from a friend from the Netherlands who was kind enough to forward to me this week’s poem, “The Wreck of the Golfer.” The poem was written by Andrew Barton “Banjo” Paterson (1864 – 1941), a famous Australian poet, journalist and author. One of Paterson’s most famous poems is “Waltzing Matilda,” which was set to music and became one of Australian’s most famous songs. Paterson’s image appeared on an Australian postage stamp in 1981 and today graces Australia’s 10 dollar note.

Without some background, “The Wreck of the Golfer” makes strange reading. But once it is understand that the poem is a parody of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “The Wreck of the Hesperus,” (1842) then at least we can understand its structure and ending. Longfellow’s poem begins,

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintery sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
To bear him company.

You can read the entire poem at http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Wreck_of_the_Hesperus. Paterson’s poem is as follows:

The Wreck of the Golfer

It was the Bondi golfing man
 Drove off from the golf house tee,
 And he had taken his little daughter
 To bear him company.

 "Oh, Father, why do you swing the club
 And flourish it such a lot?"
 "You watch it fly o'er the fences high!"
 And he tried with a brassey shot.

 "Oh, Father, why did you hit the fence
 Just there where the brambles twine?"
 And the father he answered never a word,
 But he got on the green in nine.

 "Oh, Father, hark from behind those trees,
 What dismal yells arrive!"
 "'Tis a man I ween on the second green,
 And I've landed him with my drive."

 "Oh, Father, why does the poor Chinee
 Fall down on his knees and cry?"
 "He taketh me for his Excellency,
 And he thinks once hit twice shy."

 So on they fared to the waterhole,
 And he drove with a lot of dash,
 But his balls full soon in the dread lagoon
 Fell down with a woeful splash.

 "Oh, Father, why do you beat the sand
 Till it flies like the carded wool?"
 And the father he answered never a word,
 For his heart was much too full.

 "Oh, Father, why are they shouting 'fore'
 And screaming so lustily?"
 But the father he answered never a word,
 A pallid corpse was he.

 For a well-swung drive on the back of his head
 Had landed and laid him low.
 Lord save us all from a fate like this
 When next to the links we go.

The Sydney Mail, 4 September 1897

As a reference point, the first golf club in Australia, the Australian Golf Club in Sydney, was established in 1882. However, Paterson’s relationship to golf has yet to be determined. I have written to a researcher in Australia and if she turns up something I will pass it on.   Any comments regarding Paterson’s links to golf would be appreciated.

In the mean time, we have our first historic golf poem from Australia.

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Poetry From The Golfer Magazine, 1897

November 1, 2010 by Leave a Comment

I just found this unsigned poem in the “Notes by the Wayside” section of the October 1897 issue of The Golfer magazine (offices at 154 Pearl St., Boston). It’s a little late chronologically, but still timely.

OCTOBER’S HERE

October’s here: I hear her tread,
Upon the hilltops, glad and free;
And also in my weary head,
I have a cold that’s killing me.

October’s here: but I don’t care,
I still get in my game;
I care not for the air so rare
Nor do I look for fame.

October’s here: but what of that,
Why prate I of the weather;
My only thought is now of what
My score’ll be altogether.

October’s here: her robes are red,
And yellow, sprinkled thick with gems;
The summer days have surely fled,
The talk is now of Repubs and Dems.

A month before in the same section of The Golfer:

SONG OF THE LINKS

Newport, Lenox, Lakewood,
Saratoga, Troy,
York Harbor and Knollwood,
Long Branch, Pomeroy.

Richfield Springs, Saranac,
Stamford, Hallowell,
Seabright, Bath, Pontiac,
Greenwich, New Rochelle.

Bar Harbor, Shelter Islands,
Ardsley, Asburee,
Larchmont, Atlantic Highlands,
Manchester-by-the-Sea.

How many of these courses still exist?

Filed Under: golf, golf course, golf history, golf humor, golf poetry, humor, poetry, sports poetry Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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