Has there been a wide report
You shall lose your famed resort,
That the Loopagh’s no consort
Without special dower?
Protestations, if you please,
Can be made, like dying bees,
‘Gainst an immemorial squeeze,
At a social hour.

Golfers all, what would you do
More than has been tried for you?
Notes and lovers went to woo.
Cooing – “Faugh a Ballagh!”
Now you’re free without a doubt,
Free to wander round about
Anywhere but not to shout,
“Fore” on the Loopagh.

Summer 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
Sound around the hut.
Hush, the golfer takes his stand,
Backward draws the club in hand,
Forward sweeps the ball so grand,
With some record putt.
We heard some sound in my time,
Survivals of many a clime,
Musical, warlike, sublime,
Devotional – but
The most weird heartrending knell
That this golfing world can tell
Was J.M.’s funereal yell
When he hold a long putt.

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.

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

J. Townsley 1937

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