The golfer attracts his club

A GOLFER'S APPEAL TO HIS CLUBS 
SUPPLE-SHAFTED Driver mine, 
Those wayward, impish arts of thine 
Subdue this day. 
Strike true the sphere, with hefty might, 
Guide thou its wings in airy flight, 
Pull not to left nor slice to right — 
Keep straight, I pray. 
I know thou'rt saucy, fickle, coy. 
Canst plunge in grief or raise to joy; 
Thy wrath one dreads. 
Drive not too high, nor on the ground, 
Treat booby-traps with scorn profound. 
And prove that worth is often found 
In wooden heads. 
My Brassey, be this day my friend ; 
With vigorous strokes my cause defend; 
Give wondrous Ienghth. 
Whate'er the lie, do thou be true; 
Ponds, ditches, bunkers, all eschew; 
Remember that from thee is due 
Firmness and strength. 
My Iron, enter not my soul! 
To drive one mad is not thy goal, 
Thou artful wag. 
Oh, cease thy brutalizing mirth, 
Take clean the ball from Mother Earth, 
And like a patriot show thy worth; 
Strike for the flag. 
Mashie, with thee in form I'm rich; 
This day to "concert" tune thy pitch, 
And I'll be gay. 
Approach with courage well controlled; 
Be not too shy nor yet too bold; 
When near the pin the ball has rolled. 
There bid it stay. 
And when the ball's upon the green. 
My Putter, enter thou the scene. 
And act thy best. 
Leap forth, like mail-clad knight of old. 
Or wrestler with the strangle-hold, 
And firmly, truly, gently-bold, 
Put it to rest. 
Respond my clubs, to this my call! 
Strive all for each and each for all. 
Nor work me ill. 
I'll keep you bright as bright can be, 
But play your saucy tricks on me, 
I'll smash you all across my knee — 
By heaven, I will. 
Anonymous. 
from Lyrics of the Links, published in 1921

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