476
THE AMERICAN GOLFER
¡ ¡ ¡
ALL THE WORLD'S A LINKS.
All the world's a links,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their stymies and their foozle
strokes,
And one man in his time plays many games,
His skill being seven stages. At first the
tyro,
Missing and swearing at the little globe;
Then the local player, with his brassie
And happy golfing face, creeping like snails
But willingly toward holes; and then the
enthusiast,
Teeing the. gutty, with a Highland ballad
Made to his partner's wrist shot. Then an
expert,
Full of Scotch oaths, and costumed in the
breeks,
Making a gobble; sudden and quick in
putting,
Seeking a golfing reputation
Even in the bunker's pit. And then, the
champion,
In well-worn outfit, with gold medals lined,
With eyes severe, and half shot of the best,
Full of advice and match-play instances;
And so he plays his game. The sixth stage
Shifts into the old and ''has been" golfing
champ,
With full beard on his chin and clubs on
side;
His loud, plaid hose, well saved, a mile too
wide
For his shrunk shank; and his once piercing
voice
Turning once more toward childish "foreing" pipes
And whistles in his play. Last stage of all,
That ends this dialectic history
Is golfing memories and mere narration,
Sans strokes, sans swipe, sans grip, sans
everything!
—Arthur E. Loeke, in Puck.