The First Or Bridge Hole

SACRED to hope and promise is the spot—

To Philp’s and to the Union Parlour near,

To every Golfer, every caddie dear—

Where we strike off—oh, ne’er to be forgot,

Although in lands most distant we sojourn.

But not without its perils is the place;

Mark the opposing caddie’s sly grimace,

Whispering: “He’s on the road!” “He’s in the burn!”

So is it often in the grander game

Of life, when, eager, hoping for the palm,

Breathing of honour, joy, and love and fame,

Conscious of nothing like a doubt or qualm,

We start, and cry: “Salute us, muse of fire!”

And the first footstep lands us in the mire.