The Village Golfer – Golf Poetry

The Village Golfer – Golf Poetry

THE VILLAGE GOLFER 

WITH club and ball upon the tee, 
The eager golfer stands ; 
In truth, a healthy man is he, 
With strong and sinewy hands, 
And the muscles of his sun-browned arms 
Are firm as hempen strands. 

His hat is off, his hair blows free. 
His face is like the tan; 
His thoughts dwell on the Colonel's score, 
He'll beat it if he can; 
He keeps his eye upon the ball 
And fears no bogey man. 

Week in, week out, from morn to night. 
You can hear him bellow "fore !" 
You can see him swing his various clubs. 
And tramp the meadows o'er. 
Like a reaper with a sickle sharp 
Cutting grain for threshing floor. 

And children coming home from school, 
Gaze o'er the grassy green; 
They love to see the ancient game 
Played with an ardor keen, 
And watch the little balls that fly 
As from a gun-machine. 

He goes on Sunday to no church — 
Not if he has his choice ; 
He hears no parson pray or preach, 
But lists to Nature's voice 
Resounding o'er the verdant links, 
And body and soul rejoice. 

Succeeding, failing, trying again. 
Around the course he plays ; 
Each morn he seeks to lower the mark 
He's made on other days ; 
A match attempted — bravely fought — 
He earns the victor's bays. 

A word with thee, my worthy friend. 
In golf three things are taught: 
To persevere, yourself control, 
For others have a thought; 
And if you wish for health and strength. 
You'll find them cheaply bought. 

Frank J. Bonnelle
In Lyrics of the Links, 1921