A Ballade of the Inveterate Golfer – Golf Poetry

A Ballade of the Inveterate Golfer – Golf Poetry

A BALLADE OF THE INVETERATE GOLFER 

ERE yet along the rolling links 
Spring's earliest spear of emerald shows, 
While still the north wind through the chinks 
Its shrewd and shrilly whistle blows, 
He grips his bag of plaid and goes 
Afield with swinging stride and free, 
Sooth, by his very mien one knows, 
A tireless golfing man is he! 

When bums the sun until one blinks. 
So fierce the furnace heat it throws. 

And earth, with lips a-fevered, drinks. 
The dewy draught the dawn bestows, 
Albeit he reddeneth as the rose, 
And doth perspire most fearfully, 
He heedeth not, and hence one knows 
A tireless golfing man is he! 

When in a murky vapor sinks 
The day, and swift the darkness grows, 
When frost-elves try their cunning "kinks," 
And south wing clamoring the crows. 
E'en till the swirling fall of snows 
He still is seen upon the tee ; 
Sooth, by his very mien one knows 
A tireless golfing man is he ! 

The rains and snows — these are his foes; 

He has no other woes, perdie! 
Sooth, by his very mien one knows 

A tireless golfing man is he! 

- Clinton Scollard
From Lyrics of the Links, 1921