CULLYBACKEY GOLF CLUB IN COMMEMORATION

CULLYBACKEY GOLF CLUB
IN COMMEMORATION

Had there been a wide report
They should lose their famed resort,
That the Loopagh’s no consort,
Without special dower
Protestations, if you please
Had been made like dying bees
‘Gainst an immemorial squeeze
At a social hour.

But, like sporting golfers they
Wisely chose the gentler way
To requite themselves, and stay
Their dear homes to guard
So they buoyed their hearts up higher
With dream fancies in the fire
Now rejoicing – they aspire
To have their reward.

Golfers now come out to thank
Craigdun, Hillmount, Hazelbank,
And show forth their powers and rank,
Soaring like the lark
Peace to Colonel Bogey’s ashes
Welcome each Fidus Achates!
Hasten all, cry out, “O yes!
Ho! The Craigs Beef Park.”

Now for a symposium
Let that man alone be dumb
Who will not subscribe a crumb
To the wondrous tale
Golf and golfers be your theme,
How they played by rush and stream,
Noon or eve, in gloom or gleam,
Tell us, without fail.

Former days brought social teas,
Buttercups along the leas,
Talks of play beside the seas,
From the tee to green,
After tea an extra drive,
Round the circle, all alive,
Seeking balls like bees from hive
Everywhere so keen.

Just one round of gaiety
For the clergy and laity,
All the while hilarity
Sounded round the hut
Hush! The golfer takes his stand,
Backward draws the club in hand,
Reward sweeps the ball so grand,
With some record putt.

Dallas’s doxology
Cried out for some eulogy,
If not an apology
From his doggie Prince
(Bow-wow)
See his neighbour fix his tee,
Hover o’er it like a bee
Waggle, slap, “Hello,! says he,
Have you seen it since?”
(No! No!)

I’ve heard some sounds in my time,
Survivals of many a clime,
Musical, warlike, sublime,
Devotional – but
The most weird heart-rending knell
That this golfing world can tell
Was J- m-s funereal yell
When he holed a long putt,
On the Fiddler’s Green

Poets say Cupid is blind
That may be, but never mind
Umpteen years from now we’ll find
A grand eye-opener,
Meantime let our practice be
By fairways, bunkers, tee to tee,
Until the final R.I.P.
Brings a new wooer.

J. T. 15th April 1922

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