Andrew Barton Paterson (Эндрю Бартон Патерсон)
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 to the waterhole, And he drove with a lot of dash, But his balls full soon in the dread lagoon Fell down with a woeful splash. ”Oh, Father, why do you beat the sand Till it flies like the carded wool?” And the father he answered never a word, For his heart was much too full. ”Oh, Father, why are they shouting ’fore’ And screaming so lustily?” But the father he answered never a word, A pallid corpse was he. For a well-swung drive on the back of his head Had landed and laid him low. Lord save us all from a fate like this When next to the links we go.
Andrew Barton Paterson’s other poems:
943
