The Golf Walk

Behold, my child, this touching scene,
The golfer on the golfing-green;
Pray mark his legs uncanny swing,
The golf-walk is a gruesome thing!

See how his arms and shoulders ride
Above his legs in haughty pride,
While over bunker, hill and lawn
His feet, relentless, drag him on.

And does the man walk always so?
Nay! nay I my child, and eke, oh! no!
It is a gait he only knows
When he has on his golfing clothes.

Blame not the man for that strange stride
He could not help it if he tried;
It is his timid feet that try
From his obstreperous clothes to fly.

Ellis Parker Butler

Ellis Parker Butler was an American author, humorist, and poet, best known for his short story 'Pigs Is Pigs.' Born on December 5, 1869, in Muscatine, Iowa, Butler became a prolific writer, contributing to numerous magazines and books over his career. He is remembered for his wit and humor, which marked his work. Butler passed away on September 13, 1937.

Ellis Parker Butler

To May

Ellis Parker Butler, Simple Poetry

Anticipation

Ellis Parker Butler, Simple Poetry

No Beer, No Work

Ellis Parker Butler, Simple Poetry

English

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The City Of Golf

Would you like to see a city given over,
    Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?
If you would, there's little need to be a rover,
    For St. Andrews is the abject city's name.

It is surely quite superfluous to mention,
    To a person who has been here half an hour,
That Golf is what engrosses the attention
    Of the people, with an all-absorbing power.

Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;
    Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,
    Unless he goes at least a round a day.

The city boasts an old and learned college,
    Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge
    Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.

All the natives...

Robert Fuller Murray

The Wreck Of The Golfer

It was the Bondi golfing man
Drove off from the golf house tee,
And he had taken his little daughter
To bear him company.

"Oh, Father, why do you swing the club
And flourish it such a lot?"
"You watch it fly o'er the fences high!"
And he tried with a brassey shot.

"Oh, Father, why did you hit the fence
Just there where the brambles twine?"
And the father he answered never a word,
But he got on the green in nine.

"Oh, Father, hark from behind those trees,
What dismal yells arrive!"
"'Tis a man I ween on the second green,
And I've landed him with my drive."

"Oh, Father, why does the poor Chinee
Fall down on his knees and cry?"
"He taketh me for his Excellency,
And he thinks once hit twice shy."

So on they fared t...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Walkers

    (He speaks.)

Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!
Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;
Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking,
Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie;
Marveling at all things - windmills gaily turning,
Apples for the cider-press, ruby-hued and gold;
Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning,
Wedge of geese high-flying in the sky's clear cold,
Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling;
Home again returning, hungry as a hawk;
Whistling up the garden, ruddy-cheeked and sparkling,
Oh, but I am happy as I walk, walk, walk!


    (She speaks.)

Walking, walking, oh, the curse of walking!
Slouching round the grim square, shuffling up the stree...

Robert William Service

The Treadmill Song

The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs;
What though you're awkward at the trade,
There's time enough to learn, -
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do
But just to walk about;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends, -
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends....

Oliver Wendell Holmes

The Crooked Footpath

Ah, here it is! the sliding rail
That marks the old remembered spot, -
The gap that struck our school-boy trail, -
The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver-birch
And ended at the farm-house door.

No line or compass traced its plan;
With frequent bends to left or right,
In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
But always kept the door in sight.

The gabled porch, with woodbine green, -
The broken millstone at the sill, -
Though many a rood might stretch between,
The truant child could see them still.

No rocks across the pathway lie, -
No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown, -
And yet it winds, we know not why,
And turns as if for tree or stone...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Reflections Of A Proud Pedestrian

I saw the curl of his waving lash,
And the glance of his knowing eye,
And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,
As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig,
Or flourish the Stanhope gay,
And dream that he looks exceeding big
To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still,
On the stable-boy's gathering numbers,
And the ghost of many a veteran bill
Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep,
And constables cluster around him,
And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep
Where their spectre eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong,
And bid your steed go faster;
He does not know, as he scrambles along,
That he h...

Oliver Wendell Holmes