Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CHICKEN; OR, MY FIRST INTRODUCTION TO THE ANCIENT GAME OF GOLF, by S. F. OUTWOOD



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CHICKEN; OR, MY FIRST INTRODUCTION TO THE ANCIENT GAME OF GOLF, by                    
First Line: Once upon a day most dreary, I was wandering weak and weary
Last Line: And would play it never more!
Subject(s): Games; Golf; Sports; Recreation; Pastimes; Amusements


ONCE upon a day most dreary, I was wandering weak and weary,
Thinking I had seldom seen so drear a looking moor;
For the stillness was unbroken by a single sign or token
That a voice had ever spoken; when I felt upon my jaw
Something hit me without warning, nearly breaking through my jaw,
And from pain I knew no more.

Ah, distinctly I remember, that it was a chill November
When I stood thus watching faintly divers sparks to Heaven soar;
Then two awful men came stealing, while with pain I still was reeling,
Plainly I recall the feeling, as they kept on shouting "Fore!"
But I moved not in my horror, while they still kept shouting "Fore!"
Feeling pain and nothing more.

But fierce danger still was pending, for I, still with anguish bending,
Heard the sound of ether rending, as an object through it tore,
And beside me there alighted something that was round and whited,
Looking like a star affrighted that had shone in days of yore.
There it lay, a grim and ghastly whitewashed wreck of days of yore,
Round and white and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
"Sirs," said I, to these two strangers, "tell me this I do implore,
By the red coats ye are wearing, by the weapons ye are bearing,
Know ye whence these things come tearing — are they meteoric ore?
One has wounded me severely, and seems hard as any ore."
But they laughed and nothing more.

Then, into their faces peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing;
Fighting frantic fears no mortal ever had to fight before;
They had laughed when I had spoken, and I guessed by this same token
They were idiots who had broken, doubtless, through the asylum door.
Idiots who'd escaped from Earlswood, having broken through the door.
This, alas! and nothing more.

But while I, half bent on flying, still within my mind was trying
To think out how them in safety to their home I might restore;
One man broke the pause by saying that't was cussed nonsense playing
If fools would continue staying even when they halloed "Fore!"
Staying mooning on the hazard while four lungs were bellowing "Fore!"
Then he swore and said no more.

Now through all my mind came stealing quite a different kind of feeling,
As I thought I'd heard some speaking of a game like this before;
So, by way of explanation, I delivered an oration
Of a suitable duration, which I think they thought a bore;
And I said, "I'll watch your playing," but they muttered "Cussed bore!"
Just these words and nothing more.

Then I seemed to see quite plainly two boys near in clothes ungainly,
Waiting by us bearing weapons — such a curious, endless store!
And I said, "You'll be agreeing that no earthly living being
Ever yet was blest by seeing such queer things as these before?
Hooks and crooks of all descriptions such as ne'er were seen before."
"Clubs be they, and nothing more."

Thus spoke one they called a caddie, though he spoke more like a Paddy,
And I said whilst slowly following, "Tell their names, I do implore!"
Then these words he seemed to utter in a most uncivil mutter,
"Driver, cleek, spoon, brassey, putter," till he reached about a score,
Muttering thus he still continued, till he reached at least a score,
Or maybe a trifle more.

Soon the boy, when some one hallooed, went ahead while still I followed,
Wondering much to see how quickly he across the bracken tore:
Faster still he flew and faster to his most unhappy master,
Who had met with some disaster, which he seemed to much deplore,
For his ball was in a cart-rut, this alone he did deplore,
Only this and nothing more.

Here he cried, "Do try and be quick! don't you see I want my niblick?
Curse these deep and muddy places, which one's balls will quite immure."
Then the mud so fierce did lash he, that his garments soon were splashy
And he called out for his mashie, and he very loudly swore,
Mashing, splashing, did not aid him, nor did all the oaths he swore,
The ball sank in and nothing more.

Whilst I was engaged in thinking how deep down the thing was sinking,
Listening to the flow of language that from out his lips did pour;
Suddenly he dived and sought it, and from out the mud he brought it,
Tossed it to the boy, who caught it, then he counted up his score,
Said if he at first had tee'd it, he'd have saved quite half his score,
Now he'd try the hole no more.

So I thought the game was ended, but their talk was so much blended
With a language unfamiliar which I had not heard before;
For in argument quite stormy they disputed about "dormie,"
And the word it clean did floor me, though I thought it deeply o'er.
Tried to sift its derivation, but while still I thought it o'er
It perplexed me more and more.

"Players," said I, "sure I'm dying just to send that ball a-flying,
Let me show you how I'd make it up into the heaven soar!"
And one answered, "Come, and try it! we should like to see you sky it!
Here's a club, six bob will buy it, I have plenty at the store."
'T was the man who teaches golfing, and who keeps clubs in store,
Just himself and nothing more.

Then the other, who was playing, said he did not mind delaying
Just to see me make a something of a record of a score.
So unto the tee they led me, and of six good bob they bled me,
And with flattery they fed me, but the ball it would not soar;
So they said I must "address" it, — but no language made it soar,
It just rolled and nothing more.

"Ball," I said, "thou thing of evil! Emblem of a slippery devil!
White thou seemest, yet I reckon thou art black right to the core;
On thy side I see a token of the truth that I have spoken,
And a gash, that I have broken, shows thee to be whitened o'er;
Shows thy true self 'neath the varnish with which thou art covered o'er,
Only black and nothing more!"

Then with rage I took my driver, smiting at this foul survivor
Of the devil very fiercely, but the turf, alas! I tore,
And an awful crash resounding as of splintered timber sounding
Heard I, as the head went bounding, and my club broke to the core;
Just a stick I held all broken, broken right across the core,
But a stick and nothing more.

And the ball, no thought of flitting, still was sitting, still was sitting
Quietly on its little sandheap, just as it had sat of yore;
I was greatly aggravated and I very plainly stated
That the game was overrated, as I've heard men say before;
So I swore I'd chuck the game up, as some others have before,
And would play it never more!





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