Bunkered Browning

There has recently been published a History of Golf by Robert Browning. Competitors were asked to imagine that this was the work of the poet, and for the usual prize, to provide an introductory poem from Browning's pen.

MOST of the best-known Browning tags cropped up, with appropriate variations.

The year's at the Spring! The ball's on the tee!

Call me at seven!

The bunker's dew-pearled sang Vera Mouse.

I strode up the fairway, and Algie, and he; I teed up, Alf teed up, we teed up all three.

declaimed Mrs. Dorothy B. Wilson. There's a wise bird I He plays each putt

twice over.

How right to think he never could replay That first fine careless tee-shot of the day! ruminates Alan Simpson; and James Bowker hopefully looks forward to • In Heaven—a perfect round!

There is plenty of variety in Browning, and competitors ranged widely from Abt Waggler to The Swing and the Hook. All aspects of the game were treated, from the fulminations of James IV of Scotland (Adrienne Gascoigne) to the twin curses of mechanisation and expense (Admiral Sir W. James), On the whole, those who chose lyric metres came off best, showing plenty of ingenuity in their rhyming. A great many competitors reached a high standard, and produced verses worthy of print, if space allowed.

I award £2 to Donald Hughes, and £1 each to Leslie Johnson, Howard Burton and Pibwob (whose third line 1 have ven- tured to amend by the excision of a redun- dant foot !) H. A. C. Evans ,contributed some excellent lines that were less conspicu- ously Browningesque than those of the winners. Others deserving commendation are Noel Scott, D. L. L. Clarke, Mrs. A. A. Dunlop, P. M., Marjorie Kidd, Xico and B. P. Hatton.

PRIZES

(DONALD HUGHES)

Leave we the sheltered courts, the green sward tame: Wind-swept and rain-spent

Seek we the purlieus of the famous game,

Royal and Ancient.

Here's what reveals the stuff of which • man's made, Weaklings is hard on.

This tests a Taylor, brings out Braid,

Vindicates Vardon.

That low man, straying sadly off the line, Sulked in a bunker, This high man, boldly with his number nine, chipped up and sunk her. This man content the Colonel* to outface?

The thought absurd is.

He's soul-hydroptic for the feathered race —Eagles and Birdies!

* Colonel Bogey, of course.

(LESLIE JOHNSON) 1

Browning a writer of history? Golf suggests need for a tutor.

Irks not the pen in a hand become blistery? Yes, sir, 1 heard what you muttered. 'Ne sutor—' Patience! I show you a mystery.

Clio is matter-of-fact,

Never, you'd venture, poetical? Give her a topic she's hitherto lacked,

Something to alter a nature ascetical, There's your Euterpe intact!

Leaving the prosers to pout (His way will never be their way),. Poet takes stance, waggles driver, gives clout, Sending his shot to the edge of the fairway. Caddy, I pay you to scout!

(HOWARD BURTON)

Let's contend no more, Love,

With the cfeek.

Keep your clubs in store, Love,

For a week. That last hefty divot Flying free, Showed a faulty pivot On the tee.

If you're feeling fed up

With your game, Piling, with your head up, Shame on shame,

Find why your distressing Slice and hook, Are the fault of pressing. Read my book

(piswon)

Read Golf's life story, scored by one whose aim

Plans to refresh old

Faithful, forgotten, records of the game Right from its threshold.

Who framed its infant cradle? Here must Scots Yield to the Dutch on

Time's sheet. This voucher of stark history blots Scotia's escutcheon?

Nay! Though wish cannot strike from history's page

Zeeland and Hague off,

World's Links avow Saint Andrew's patronage On all who play Golf.

Read, then, what changes time has wrought in Ball, Green, Bunker, Club, Stance, And how, through outward flux, Golf's spirit all Endures in substance.