CULLYBACKEY GOLF CLUB
O’ yez! Golfers of the Maine
Listen to my doleful strain;
Never, never more again
Shall ye wield you mashie.
Cullybackey’s joys are fled,
Links of “Love” are cold and dead;
Their dirge sung o’er Maine’s pebbly bed
And waterlogged Dromona.
Oh! for a shot at the bunker high,
With muscles tense and steady eye;
Your “spalding” soaring in the sky
Or rolling to the turnpool.
Oh! for a glint of the river’s sheen,
Oh! for a shot at the “fiddler’s green,”
Where a thousand hazards came between
The ball and its destination.
Oh! for a friendly foursome on
The Loopagh till the sun went down,
When Dallas’s entrancing song
Woke echoes in the woodlands.
And after all is said and done,
We’ve played the game and had the fun,
And if the Loopagh’s race is run
Hurrah! for its Ressurection.
NIBLICK, November 1917