(MULLION)


It is the place, it is the place, my soul!
(Blow, bugle, blow; sing, triangle; toot, fife!)
Down to the sea the close-cropped pastures roll,
Couches behind yon sandy hill the goal
Whereat, it may be, after ceaseless strife
The "Colonel" shall find peace, and Henry say,
"Your hole" ...

Caddie, give me my driver, caddie,
The sun shines hot, but there's half a breeze,
Enough to rustle the tree-tops, laddie,
Only supposing there were some trees;
The year's at the full and the morn's at eleven,
It's a wonderful day just straight from Heaven,
And this is a hole I can do in seven--
Caddie, my driver, please.

Three times a day from now till Monday week
(Ten peerless days in all) I take my stand
Vested in some _dégagé_ mode of breek
(The chess-board touch, with squares that almost speak),
And lightly sketch my Slice into the Sand,
As based on bigger men, but much of it unique....

Caddie, give me my driver, caddie,
Note my style on the first few tees;