A-FOURSOMEATRYE

fht Entered at Stationers1 Hall,] 17T17C

FT I" I' \ "i -» ST. A AT RYE.

JOHN SOMERVILLE.

'47)

RYR : J. L. DEACON, THE LIBRARY, MDCCCXCVIII, I.

s of Hye." 'UMAJ.,

THE GOLF MUSEUM AND LIBRARY United States Golf Association

Donated through the kindness of O.M. Leland I AT THE OLD MERMAID, EYE.

GOITER, TTRO. ANTIQUARF. POET.

GOLFER. Hurrah ! Now at length we are free From the thraldom of toil and of pleasure In town : and here by the sea We can solace ourselves at our leisure With the only game which on earth From tedium a mortal can save, Till Death lays a stymie to Mirth At the ultimate hole of the grave ! Trjio. AVith the only game which I'm hold To say cannot possibly cloy, But which dowers the veins of the old With the jubilant pulse of the boy. POET. O ! Sirs, if you truly have met AVith a certain nepenthe for Care, A balm for the fever and fret Of life, I implore you to sharp i A FOUKSOME AT RYE. Tour secret with me and my friend. We ako to-day are set free Prom the coil of the city, to spend A few calm days by the sea.

Sir, permit me to add My own very humble request. For the soul of the man who is sad I have found that a book is the best.

(TOLFEB. A hook, Sir ! The very worst cure ! What you need is, to brisken the blood ! And your nostrum of study, I'm sure Will make it as stagnant as mud. TTRO. Study P That horrible Shape From which I've been aided to flee By my wise friend here—to escape To the beautiful fringe of the sea ! Vade retro ! thou Spectre! A Taunt! To thy solemn recesses be off! Here, by this old-world haunt, My hours shall be given to golf!

So " golf" is the style of your game? GOLFER. Golf, Sir, is its reverend name, A FOURSOME A? KYE. S

POET. G-olf! 'tis a barbarous word Which sounds strange from an Englishman's mouth— Yet of course I confess I nave heard It much, of late years, in the South. When o'er breezy commons I've sped, Once so still, when the pastime has raged, I've prayed that all Britons in red Could at least be so mildly engaged ! G/OUEK. May I ask if you've ever played golf ? POET. Not 1! games are not in my line. GrOEraa, Then at none you should venture to scoff. POET. Not I, while your roof-tree is mine ! But tell us, since golf is the game Which loosens Grief's chain, and Care's, What gives it its far-spreading fame, And what are the boons which it bears ?

Tes, tell us I listen and learn. TTHO Tes, tell them, my friend ! I am fain For your praise of the game which I burn To be at on the morrow again. A I'OtfRSOMB AT RYE. GOLFER. Listen. Foul fare the golfer Who cannot speak in praise Of that the feckless scoffer Declares is waste of days. Golf is the game for Youth— Golf is the game for Age— Golf is sworn liege to Truth— And Golf to Health is page. Golf leaves the busy crowd • ( Whose God is cent per cent, Whose backs are 'neath burdens bowed And o'er dusty ledgers bent; Golf woos men to the shore, To the wares of the windy sea, Till they can feel once more That which made their fathers free— The breath of the ocean breeze, The sting of the salt sea spray, From regiments of rolling seas Which keep our foes at bay. Golf leads to unshrubb'd downs, Whose turf is like velvet spread, Where the bird which is cheap in towns (1) Sings a priceless song o'erhead ; 'Tis golf that strengthens and braces The bock for its load again, And smooths from the brow the traces Of the obstinate claws of Pain. Golf is the surest Healer—

(I) " Larks arc cheap to-day" (Lcadcnhn.ll Market.) A FOURSOME AT BYE. 7 It heals both body and mind ; 'Tis the only true revealer Of a man amidst his kind— For the churl who conceals his vices In cities, his cloak must doff, When he foozles and heels and slices In the glorious game of golf ! Trao. Go on ! for I could listen for a week ! ANTIQUARY. I must admit your last allusion's Greek To me—and yet I must applaud your zeal! Ah would that I could your devotion feel For my pet hobby, which I must confess Oft seems to me but lettered idleness. GOT/FEB. That is because your circulation's slow ! Play golf, to give your life a keener zest. If but a week on golf you will bestow You'll say your hobby—or that golf, is best Of human pleasures. Pray, what is your line P ANTIQUAUY. I am a miner, and the Past's my mine. Or, to employ a figure more sublime, I search for drift-wood on the shores of Time. —For spars, with which the poets, happier- skill'd, The phantom city of the Past rebuild ; —Lost stones, from which the historian can restore The deeds of generations gone before. 8 A tfOtJRSOME AT RYE. POET. In brief, an Antiquarius, A genuine scion of the stem Of the Old Greek, Herodotus, Who gathered legends by the Nile Which still the hearts of men beguile Who have the mind to list to them. TYRO. I find such stories rather dry. Give me the Daily Papers, and the last Novel from Mudie's, and I care not, I, What dusty parchments drone about the Past! POET. Alack ! Time hurries Man on With its irresistible tide, And the mists of Oblivion Obscure the coasts lie descried When he first set sail iu his Youth For the Happy Isles of the Blest. Now he tacks for the realms of Truth, But they ever recede before, Tho' lie sighs for the solid shore, And seldom his barque finds rest. But I, I would fain believe His labour not all in vain, Who would from the Past retrieve A dream Man may dream again, A glimpse of Atlantis the old Now drowned 'neath the sounded seas, Of the fadeless apples of gold In the fabled Hesperides. A FOURSOME AT RYE. 0 But ah ! in these restless hours When Man has scarce time to learn The new, how Tefind the bowers Of Eld, which can ne'er return ? — When the Sun was swung for a lamp To the Earth which was firm and flat, And Man was a careless tramp, Not slave to a cylinder hat!

G-OXJFEB. Well, give me golf, and you may keep your dreams Of all your fabled Isles, Elysian streams !

ANTIQUARY. But what if by my hobby I could prove That Past the parent of the game you love ?

TTEO. Nonsense ! Golf, Sir, is known the crowning glory Of good old Scotland, famed in song and story For whisky, and the bagpipes, and the haggis. But when no more of such grand things her bi braSis' ,.,-•»*• When the last bagpipe's in a big Museum, ^ When stern teetotallers shall sing " Te Deum O'er the last still—when haggis is forgot— •Upon the scroll of Paine the name of Scot Will stand indelible—the World will doff Its hat to men who first invented golf. 10 A FOURSOME AT BYE. ANTIQUAHY. Invented golf? 'Tis older far than Adam ! As well say roads were first made by Maca«lam ! G-olf, Sir, as Science has made clear to us Was surely played by " homo pithecus " In fact, without the game, Man had been dumb, And never would have grown his mighty thumb, Which is the organ by whose help he made His special glories—Letters, Art, and Trade. GrOLFEK. Stands Scotland where she did ? Make your words good. TTBO. Or all the clans will swear to have your blood. ANTICJUABT. Fill up your glasses with their mountain dew ! I very briefly will explain my view. GrOiFEB. Succeed, I will instruct you in the game. POET. And I will sing your scientific fame. ANTIQUARY. Perpend. In the ages early Man had but the germ of a thumb, His hair was abundant and curly, And Darwin thinks he was dumb. He merely grunted and snuffled When grouad-nuts puffed his cheek, A FOtJBSOME AT He roared when his temper was ruffled, And when he was hurt he would shriek. With plenty of food, bo was happy ; When bananas failed, he was sad : His temper grew fitful and snappy, And hia manners detestably bad, —Scarce better when he was sated, For ennui cursed his days, And his wives he alienated By his unconjugal ways ; One day where rabbits abounded, He strolled the primeval scrub, Struck a pebble, water-rounded, With the knob of a knotted club : The atone as straight as a furrow On its noble mission flew, In a sacred rabbit'8 burrow It disappeared from view; Then the &ods who watch from heaven Looked down on Man forlorn : To his vacant brain was given The idea of Golf new-born : Then Man forgat his troubles, The tedium of empty life, And in friendly foursomes and doubles He even played with a wife; His brain grew nimbler and stronger, His temper now seldom glum, And use made larger and longer His now opposable thumb : Fair Language stept from her hiding In an ambush of hia brain, 12 A FOUBSOME AT BYE. And grafted on guttural chiding The gift of Speech made plain ; Man spoke with an intonation He never had used of yore,— The slogan of Civilization, The strident cry of " Fore ! "

GOLFEE. I shall be proud to teach 8uch a very promising scholar— Though that golf is the cause of speech, I'd be loth to bet my last dollar. But far be it from me to try To show where your logic's weak ! On the rolling links of Rye I'll teach you to swing the cleek.— But hark ! Queen Elizabeth's clock (1) Prom its stance in the old church-tower, To the ancient town on the rock Is marking the midnight hour. TYRO. Twelve ! How silent and still Is the night!

ANTIQUARY. As the quiet grave ! POET. Methiiiks 'ncath the western hill I can hear the wash of the wave ? A F0T7ES0ME AT RYE. 13

ANTIQTTABT. No, 'tis the sea breeze, sighing As it kisses the warm hill-side. POET. God asfioil the souls of the dying Whicb are going out with the tide ! AmiQUAIlY. )ch, Gentlemen, one last toast! GOLFER. Wait till we charge our glasses !

(1) God guard our English coast! ver, POET. And English lada and lasses !

Heaven send us golfing weather! TTBO. May I improve in skill! let grave ! GOLFEE. Shall we play on the links together ? Trno, ANTTQTTATIY, POET. "We will! We will! Wfi will! J H.

MORNING.

Set mir gegrtisst, freundllche Stfitte, Zufluoht der Kunsten. und der Verfolgten I "Ou) MERMAID" VISITORS' BOOK,

1 ANTIQUARY. How reverend looks the ancient town Clustered around the old church-tower ! A jewel of the Saxon Crown Before the day of Norman power! And when the Norman Conqueror caine, Here, on this rock laved by the sea, Still brightly burned the threaten'd flame Of Freedom and of Liberty. Por tyrant monarchs dared not shake The nest of men who ruled the waves, Nor with their iron maces make The freemen of the ocean slaves. Kings gave them charters, gave them rights -. And men of Rye, staunch sailors, oVr The stormy straits, the steel-clad knights And all their armed retainers, bore. Alack ! where are the. (Jays of old ? (2) No more the sturdv men of Bye- Bear o'er our Kings the cloth of gold, The coronation canopy! POET. Tis idle to regret the past. (;i) One ballad of the Haven town For me at least, will long outlast These faded splendours of the Cro\yii ! 18 A FOUBSOME AT RYE. ANTTQUAKT. I know the song, a trifling thing By some itinerant rhymester told. POET. Men tire of battles: songs which sing Of happy love will ne'er grow old. ANTIQTJABT. T see the pious Saxon King (4) Who for his realm's and soul's sake, gave His kingdom's richest offering To saintly men across the wave. POET. I see fair Margery, a maid 3?it for the heavens of Shakspere's skies, Follow her lover, unafraid, Across the seas, in man's disguise. ANTIQUARY. I hear the rumour o£ the fight (5) Hard by, upon the ensanguin'd main, When Crecy's hero put to flight De Cerda, and the fleet of Spain. POET. I see the maid in whom the flame Of true love burned so bright and clear, The dread of scorn it overcame, And mastered all her maiden fear!

13 • A FOURSOME AT RYE.

ANTIQTJAET. Mv fancy summons day* gone by, (fi) When the Great Queen, traditions tell, Called the fair Cinque Port " Boyall Rye " And quaffed the waters of its well. POET. I see young Anthony—"the Prido Of Lestershire " along the street Lead to her home his liappy bride, While girls strew garlands at her feet. ANTIQUARY, I see the Hanoverian King Stand sponsor to a baby Lamb. (7) G-OT/FKK. Hurrah ! My friend, your golf-bag bring, For 1 at last can see the train !

Where once the fleet of England sailed, Or rode at anchor in the bay !

Before prophetic billows failed, Knowing thai men at golf would play ! POET. foreseeing what to mcu of. sense Is clear, that Britain's chalky brinks Were destined for her best defenw, 4.H endless chain of lovely links, J 20 A FOURSOME AT BYE. GrOLFEIt. G-olf strides on its triumphant march. Thro' the four quarters of the world. TYBO. On Terdant plains, on sands which parch, I see her peaceful flags outfurl'd ! &O1FEB. The Frenchman whirls his driver round His head, ejaculating " For-r-r-e ! " TIRO. The G-erman at his ball doth pound, And plods away to mend his score. GOLFEB, The Moslem beats his scimitar Into a very graceful cleek ! TTRO. And sends a challenge to the Czar, The mild Armenian, or the Greek. GOLF EH. The traveller in far Cathay Perceives a hole before a hut. TTKO. A pigtail enters—" Brother, pray Teach me the proper way to ' putt'''! POET. Men will refuse to slay their kind Because their rulers simile War's rattle, A POUBSOMB AT EYE.

TYJIO. Knowing to prove their strength of mind, Bunkers are better than a battle !

What will become of battleships, The poor marines, the naval forces P

They'll be employed for golfing trips, To plan new links, lay out new courses. POET. Hail, Peace! For whom the sages yearn, Dear to the Man who works, and thinks ! GOLFER. Prepare yourself her game to learn, For here we are upon the links ! POET. Lend me a driver and some balls— Choose me a caddiu, Argus-eyed, To mark where my projectile falls, And be a Mentor at my side ! Q-OLFEB. Patience ! The first rule of the game is "Never haste! " and " Never hurry ! " TTBO. The novice who wonld rise to fame Must fly, like poison, nervous flurry! Si A FOfcBSOMfc Xt

POET. I am collected. ANXIQTJABT. I will be Calm. POET. —As a smooth unruffled sea, "Which 'neath its rnirror'd bosom hides A battle of opposing tides.

I'll take the Antiquary in tow TVRO. I'll teach the poet all I know. POET. I hope to lie a credit to my AN'TTQUAHV. 1 hope that mine will meet with uo disaster, -For I must caution him emphatically. My ball will travel most erratically.

(TOLFER. Forward ! 1 have no fear. No more, do Lay ! The time for action's come. "We HIUB!. not stay. FOttRSOMB tit RYfl. Tttto. We'll meet at lunch time at the ' Royal Bill.1

POET. And fight our battles o'er. G-OLFEB, We will! We will! Have you found your life distasteful ? My life—thanks to golf—smaokN sweet, "Was your youth of pleasures wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. R. Browning. " At the Mermaid " (adapted) What do you think of the game ? How now ? You look like a martyr. ANTIQTUBY. The pastime I do not blame (8) But, if Edward the First had played, fiye, 1 am much afraid, Would never have got its charter. GrOLPKB. How so ?

By the charter of Eye I read that the King surrendered His right their Claret to huy At whatever price he tendered. POET. O the glorious days of old ! When our nionarchs, like Cole, were merry ! Xow 1 learn why the Laureate bold Was paid by a butt of sherry. TTEO. Had I been Edward the First I'd never have signed that charter ! i\>r I have a most royal thirst Which not for a Crown I'd barter. as A FOUESOME AT HYE. GOLFER. Terry, bring us our drinks ! —If the poet has not betrayed you, Each bunker upon, the links Has several minutes delayed you ? TYRO. Mendacious, upon my soul! Tho' 2 did not measure the time. POET. It sufficed, at the eighteenth hole, To record your language in rhyme. GrOLTJEtt. A rhyme from the poet'p pen ! Bead ! Nothing consoles a duffer As to hear just now and then What his follow-foofck'rs suffer. Por tho sake of my pupil hero Pray omit no objurgation, Por he, to be quite sincere, Is in need of such convolution ! VOKT. (Reads). Damn! I'm buuker'd again. This is sickening. G-reat Scot! That's the twelfth time thin round. It's becoming inane! 1 get well ofl' tho tee, but at every cloek shot Damn ! I'm bunker'd again ! Something'* wrong with the stick, that ip per- fectly plain. A FOURSOME AT RYE. 29 For I rose on my toe, and the swing that I got Should have landed !ne over—yet here I remain Buried deep in the sand. It will cost me a lot Of wild strokes, with the niblick, the open to gain. Tt is jolly rough luck ! What detestable rot! i)amn ! I'm bunker'd again I " TXRO. What! was my language quite as strong ? POET. I've watered down its virulence in song. G-OUEB. Come, tell me how the poet played ?

'Twas marvellous, upon my word ! Quito often, with a light cleek's nid He cleared a bunker like a bird ; —Seemed to the Iofter born—while on the green His putts were quite n treat, so true and clean ! So at the fifteenth hole, 1 blush to say, His record was four up, and three to play. Then on the " bye " I was so tired and hot, And he so cool, he carried off the lot!

What! beaten by your pupil ? Pie! for shame! 30 A FOURSOME AT RYE. Trao. Well, when you taught me first, you were the same! GOLFER. I do confess it—and the explanation Leaves quite intact our golfing reputation. '• The burnt child (heads the fire" HO the beginner By his cool carelessness becomes the winner. I well remember, when I first began To play, I thought I was the coming man, And half in jest, half earnest, 1 did write A " Ballade of Ambition "—

POET. Pray, recite!

A BALLADE OF AMBITION.

Golf is really the easiest thing, If you're strong, and have tolerable sight! I am nure a few lessons will briuy Me into the very first flight. I nhall practice by day and by night The " putt " and the " loft " and the " drive," And thus, by persistence and might, ] shall be the best golfer alive! A FOURSOME AT RYE. 31 I shall spend— say a week—on the '• swing," —Enough for the clumsiest wight; And as I'm as cool as a king, The " putting " will be a delight. I believe it is mere nerves and fright "Which to make men such duffers connive, And as I'm not cursed by their blight, 1 shall be the best golfer alive.! I shall go to St. Andrew's next Spring, To compete in the Championship fight; To pounce down, like a hawk on the wing, On the prizes the Scotch think their right. I am sure it is possible—quite— To do each hole in far less than five, And thus—0 Ambition's last height! I shall be the best golfer alive! ENYOI. 0 champions! your skill is but slight, Aw you'll see, to your coat, when I strive ; I'll enjoy botli your envy and spite, 1 shall be tho best golfer alive ! POET. Hail! Laureate of the links of Rye ! G-OM'EJl. That title should be yours—no poet I. TV.RO. 'Tis yours—until the bard can pen a better i 32 A FOURSOME AT BYE.

ANTIQUAB.1'. Give him ten minutes then, and do not fetter His thoughts by chatter, and I'll bet a shilling He'll write a better ballade. POET. I am willing. Give me a theme ? TTHO1. "What better could you try Than this " A Ballade of the links of Rye " ? POET. A BALLADE OP THE LINKS OP EYE.

In the blue sky the sun shines bright, On tawny sands the billows beat, The sea-birds whirl and scream in flight, Afar is heard the sheep-fold's bleat; The turf's thrice-piled beneath the feet, The snowy clouds float thro' the skies— All Nature's sights and sounds repeat The golfer lives in Paradise ! Afar, upon its rocky height The old town dozes : hers the seat Which Frenchmen oft assailed in fight, Marauders, clothed in mail complete: While on the flats, where once the fleet Of England sailed, grey Camber lies, (9) A stranded wreck where waves retreat — The golfer lives in Paradise ! A FOURSOME AT RYE. 33 How gay the heart is and how light Where Beauty, Sport and Friendship greet! Where all the joys of life invite, And warm it with their genial heat! Sweet is the lark's song—but more sweet The golf-ball's whistle as it flies Swift toward the mark which it should meet— The golfer lives in Paradise ! ENTOI. 0 fools ! who drudge from morn till night And dream your way of life is wise, Come hither ! prove a happier plight, The golfer lives in Paradise ! TTEO. The laurel's yours! GOLFER. The palm I would resign, E'en tho' it meant a pipe of Malmsey wine, For I confess my *' Ballade of Ambition " Took me a day to get into condition, While your ten minutes Ballade ran its course From start to finish, like a well-train'd horse, And cantered in a winner, be it said, By several lengths,—or rather, by a head ! POET. Thanks for the compliment! 'Tis a mere hack This horse called " Rhyme." Once get upon his back And it's surprising where the beast will amble! L APOUBSOME AT EYE.

G-OLFEB. With me he seldom gets out of a shamble ;' Perchance because I merely am astraddle, And not securely seated in the saddle. POET. How did your pupil thrive ? GOLFER. Eor a beginner— Well. ANTIQUARY. That's untrue ! you were an easy winner Giving me two a hole ! but ] shall beat you When nexc in friendly rivalry I meet you ! POET. The Sage among the golfers ! I'm afraid That Archaeology will lose your aid. You'll give up thinking of the days of yore, Flourish a club, and make your motto " Pore ! " Tvrtto. Well! shall we have another round ? POET. 'No, to the harbour I am bound. TYRO. What, are you fishing ? POET. Yes, for song. For where a river meets the sea A POUBSOME AT RYE. 35 A flood of curious fancies throng Into my brain unceasingly. Here, a long wharf runs to the bay, And where the restless ocean flows It brings to me from far away Dreams of the sea which no man knows. That unknown ocean which surrounds This little star on which we stand, And with its airy bastions bounds The confines of the sea and land. Tract. And when the ocean ebbs, what then ? POET. It tells me stories of the tide Of Time, which hurries mortal men Upon its bosom, deep and wide. Unresting, to Infinity! And as I sit alone and dream, I lose my small identity, And seem a parcel of the stream. ' TYRO. But to what ends ? POET. To none, or all. The mind which seeks may miss its quest, But when 'tis passive, fancies fall (Like winged seeds which seek a nest) Which spring to flowers of various hue, Some veined with purple, some with flame, With petals some of azure blue, 36 A FOURSOME AT BYE. And the mind knows not whence they came ! But, should you ask my mind to mount Higher, this answer I might give— They flow from that Eternal Fount Of thought, by -which-we move and live \ TYRO. Well! to your dreams I do cominond you ! May heaven its choicest concords send you. GOLFER. Does not my pupil wish to play ? ANTIQUARY. To-morrow, master ! not to-day. Tour afternoon I would not spoil— To teach the old is thankless toil. GOLFER. Old ! haven't you hoard the saying " A man's as old as he feels " ? When a veteran takes to playing He forgets Old Time at his heels !

While he's playing—true ! but alack ! Not when he's finished his munis ! Then he feels a pain in his back, And uncommonly stiff when he kneols ! — When he kneels to pick up tlu> halls (TOLFKR. That the caddie should do— A FOURSOME AT EYE.

ANTIQITABY. But I Have work on hand which recalls Me back to tie town of Eye. GOLFER. Farewell then! I'll play with my friend— We'll meet you to-night at dinner. POET. May luck on your strokes attend ! ANTIQUARY. And at table we'll toast the winner !

L. IV.

EVENING.

Souls of Poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy Hold or mossy cavern Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? John KeaU. AT THE 'OLD MERMAID.'

After golf and an excellent dinner, I feel at peace with my kind. TYRO. And I, tho' I've not been a winner, Bear to-night a benevolent mind. ANTIQUABT. The questions which harass and bore us Dissolve in this reverend place. POET. The souls of good topers before us Have left benediction and grace.

Ah would that some bold necromancy Could summon them back from tho shade! ISince that fails us, give reins to tho fancy! Here the Prince of all Poet8 hath stayed ! In Eye ^Fletcher's father was vicar (10) What marvel if Fletcher should boast To Shakespere, of contraband liquor Smuggled over from Gallia's coast ? We know the Bard visited Dover— —At least 'tis presumed so, from " Lear "— When there, he would doubtless come over And stay %t the " Mermaid " ' tis clear! ii k ffOURSGMS AT

POET. The landlord in wonderment listened "When Will spoke of London. In pride Of that visit, his tavern he christened ITrotn. the world-famous inn in Cheapside! AUTIQTTABI. More improbable fancies have long Before this been accepted as sooth, And to-night, as a tribute to Song, "We'll believe your romances have truth. GrOMEK. "By this fireplace the bard sat contented, And smoked a long pipe with his beer, Or his Malmsey, and here he invented The plot of his tragedy, " Lear ! " TYBO. A truce to such fancies ! If I Could conjure men back from the shade, I would summon the smugglers of Eye, Who here drove *au excellent trade ! They've often sat hero at their ease, And tossed off their tumblers of Brandy, Their cutlasses laid on their knees, "While their pistols, well-loaded, were handy ! ANTIQUABT. "When Wesley came down to the place (11) He wrote in hie Diary sadly,— " The Gospel they're fain to emhrace, ^d.nd the good Word they listtm to gladly. But one sin they hold very dear,— A. FOtfBSOMS AT RYfl. 49 smuggling they will not refrain^ And hence in this district I fear Our labours will all he in vain ! '' No such scruple—unless it be libel— Made the parson of G-uldeford stand. One Sunday he shut up his Bible For the sake of some real contraband. The smugglers, pursued in the dark, Very nearly were left in the lurch, Had they not found a friend in the Clerk, Who concealed all their casks in the Church. —A. tap at the minister's gate— —A talk in the night, which was chill— That Sunday, most strange to relate, The parson sent word he was ill. No service was held—but next day Bye rejoiced in some very cheap hquor, And the Clerk got two tubs for his pay, And two casks of the best for the Vicar!

TJTBO. Good old soul! Who would grudge him his grog, To cheer on a cold winter's day ? His conscience was never a clog— He resembled the Vicar of Bray!

ANTIQITAEY. He resembled the Vicar of Eye (12) Who vowed in his cure he would stop, Till the da.y Heaven willed him to die, 44 A FOUESOMH AT Whatever creed eaine to the top ! I don't boast a voice, but I'll try To sing of the Vicar of Rye.

THE VICAR OF RYE.

In bluff King Harry's dangerous days, When dissidence was treason, I praised the changeful monarch's ways According to the season ; To teach nay flock I never failed The King had right to plunder, And that the clergy who assailed His will had made a blunder. CHORUS. Eor this is right I will maintain XIntil I come to die, Sir, That whatsoever creed may reign, I'll still be Vicar of Eye, Sir ! When young King Edward had the crown, I still kept my position ; The Papacy I hooted down, As horrid superstition ; I purged the church of Images, And said they were transgression, ] read the appointed homilies, And preached against Confession. Ch. For this is right I will maintain, &c. A FOURSOME AT EYE. When Mary was our Queen declared, I made her dogmas my sense, Her creed about the Mass 1 shared, And so I got my license ; My former views I did reverse, And for them sought ablution, 1 did the Reformation curse, And smiled on persecution. Ch. For this is right I will maintain, &c. When good Queen Bess became supreme I preached against disunion, I took the oath—my constant theme The Protestant communion; For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, Aud Protestant my creed shall be, —Until the times do alter. Ch. For this is right I will maintain, &c.

GrOLFKB. Bravo ! Now I call on the poet To read us a rhyme of his own. In his notebook, if he will but show it, I'm sure he has songs of the town ?

POET. No songs on ray tablets have I— But I'll read you a legend of Rye. 46 A FOTTESOME AT BYE. THE AUSTIN FKIAR. (13)

'Twas Spring : thra' every holt and croft The notes of merle and mavis rang ; Clearer than song-birds and more soft The young monk sang. He paced the cloisters cool and calm : He sang of Mary, Mother dear ; A maiden, tranced by the psalm, Stood still to hear. She stood within her father's close, A fairer flower among the flowers ; That day Heaven fed the dreaming rose With dewy showers. The young monk looked upon her face. Fairer than any saint he dreamed Before Q-od's throne of heavenly grace, The maiden seemed. He fought the passion in his breast: Knelt on the cold hard altar-stones ; His sin to G-od and priest confessed With tears and groans. One night they missed him ia the choir: They set a bloodhound on their track ; Thov found him with his heart's desire; They haled them back. Men found no mercy for his fault. The maiden, broken-hearted, pined: Next Spring above her burial-vault, White roses twined. A FOURSOME AT RYE. ANTIQITAET. . My curse on creeds which would suppress Not train, the passions of the heart ! Which call their torpor holiness, And look askance on Life and Art! Alas ! that He who came to dower The soul of Man with deeper trust, Was made the tool to make him cower, And crush his spirit to the dust ! I sometimes ask myself if He Who sat at Cana's marriage-board, Who called the children to his knee, Was of such monks and hermits Lord ? Or if they did not rather pray To some grim spirit saturnine, Who grinned behind his mask when they At his dark altar poured their wine ? 1 POET. Each worshipper himself imputes TJnto the Q-od whom he reverea : God, thro' the centuries, confutes The images His creature rears. He could not, at one stroke, erect In faulty hearts a perfect creed : But in the minds of souls elect The Eternal Sower drops the seed. What marvel, if in sterile soil The seed He sows be choked with tares ? Only the harvest crowns the toil, And the ripe corn the farmer's cares ! 48 A FOUBSOME AT EYE,

TTHO. Alas, poor monks ! I call their system folly! A cowl would make mo die of melancholy. POET. Yet happy men existed in the cloister. TYJIO. I'd rather be a limpet or an oyster. AlTTTQUAUr. Eecite him the ballad you wrote Of the monk who was happy in hell! Stay—I think that I have it by- rote— POET. —Tour memory bears off the bell ! For rhymes which I gave to the wind, Which I tried to recapture in vain, I've oft been astonished to find Ton had locked in the safe of your brain ! Ah! what is the laud of the mob, Or the bays which on Premiers depend, To the knowledge that nothing can rob One's rhymes from the heart of a friend ? TTHO. So, when I'm wakeful at night, I remember the drives I have seen By my modest friend here, and the flight Of his Silvertown, straight for the green ! A FOURSOME AT RYE. I've not a poetical mind, But describe me his drives by your art, And I vow, when I'm old, you will find I have got all your verses by heart! GoLFEB. Be silent! I call on the sage To give us a poem which shall last When Golf is no longer the rage, And our drives are a dream of the Past !

ANTIQUARY.

THE LEGEND OP ST. BASLE.

His sallies half the city shook : Gay laughter round the cloisters ran; The Abbot closed his favourite book When Basle to ope his lips began. In cares that made some cheeks grow thin Basle found some cause for mirth and jest; Sorrow forgot herself, and Sin Awhile the burden in his breast. He talked with all men, rich or poor, Who passed the monastery gate ; The pilgrim, as he left their door, Praised the plain food the fathers ate. For, when Basle spoke, the simplest fare Looked like a banquet rich and fine ; Bread had a most majestic air, And water smacked more sweet than wine. 50 A FOURSOME AT RYE. When on dull things his humour lit, They shone with radiance undivined ; The mask the pompous wore, his wit Pierced thro', and proved their paltry kind. Then one, to Eome returning, said " This fellow rails at liule and State ! " The Holy Father shook his head, And made Basle excommunicate. He, not long after, sickened, died. An angel sought the cloisters' gloom, With Basle to Hell's dark portals hied, To place him in his fitting room. But, when the devils to torment Trooped, they found Basle- so much at ease, So humourous still, so well content, They stayed to talk, who came to tease. The fiercest imp forgot to frown, The dourest devil took his part, By the contented monk sat down, And listened with a lightened heart. Even good angels came from far To see the wonder as it grew ; Prom many a solitary star Seraphs toward Hell's dark portals flsw. Thereat the angel who had ehai'go Of Basle, to sense of duty woke ; And led him to the gloomiest marge. Qf Hell, all wrapped in sulphurous snioku ; A FOURSOME AT RYE. SI Yet even there somewhat to praise Basle found, and friends to share hie state ; The angel left him to his ways, For orders flew to Heaven's gate. He knocked. St Peter opened wide The door: the angel told his tale ; Enquired—" What pains should BOW be tried, Since Hell's worst glooms did not avail ? " St Peter answered, " Much I fear There has at Rome been some mistake ; Go back to Basle, and bring him here, Lest Heaven grow empty for his sake! " The angel on his mission flew ; Brought Basle to Heaven : a wail of pain Was heard in Hell: and there anew Despair held undisputed reign. TXEO. Bravo ! If I escape the burning marl Of Hell, and if at last my erring feet Pass Heaven's high portal, I shall look for Basle, One monk at least I shall be glad to meet! ANTIQUA.BY. " The mind is its own place " I seem to hear The lost Archangel crying, when he fell Prom the clear light of the Celestial sphere To the dark horrors of profoundest Hell! 52 A FOURSOME AT RYE.

The night wears late. With what more fitting close To our symposium by the Mermaid fire, Could we tired golfers go to the repose Which all good players of the game require ? POET. The Barons of the town are safe in bed. We, fellow-freemen of the Eoyal G-ame, By the boon hands of Sleep and Silence led, Should, ere the bell toll midnight, be the same. LAST MORNING

" What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid I " Beaumont to Jonson. Alas, too soon your holiday is ended! To the Metropolis must you return Before we've mastered that you condescended To teach, and which we were so loth to learn ?

Back to the whirlpool of the town we're driven, Where life's still possible to one who knows That days of golf may yet to him be given On grassy links where fresh the sea-breeze blows.

Lei. me confess, ero we shake hands to-morrow I was a fool to laugh fit golf. No more Will I revile a sport. I only sorrow 1 never learnt to play the game before! ANTIQUARY. it is a sport most fit for men of letters, Who by this world's dark riddles /ire distress'd : It frees them from themselves, and snaps the fetters Of one persistent thought, which spoils their rest. 66 A FOURSOME AT RYE.

TTBO.

Were I the Premier with the bays to offer To British bards, I'd not have far to seek ; England expects a poet who's a golfer; One who can drive a ball, and wield a cleek!

POET. When you are Premier, shall I then be ready To prove that I can drive a decent ball ? My aim is now erratic and unsteady ; My style, I fear, is stiffer than a wall!

TYKO. Altho' my Laureate foozles, schlaffs, and slices, If he cau fitly sing the game he plays, I for his verses will forgive his vices, He, and no other bard, shall wear the bays !

POET. I wrote last night a sonnet on the pleasures With which the game its votaries endows ; You make me bold to inflict it on your leisures— I feel your laurel budding on nay brows !

ANTIQUAET. Bead ! and tho' he refuse the bays tomorrow, I beg you add the verses which you made —Since zest is added to our joys by sorrow— About the troubles of the golfer's trade. A VOtfRSOMB AT EYE.

POET. THE GOLFER'S JOTS.

Seven are the golfer's joys. And first, the drive, Which flies o'er bunkers straight towards the green : Second, the cleek-shot, taken strong and clean, Which makes him feel 'tis good to be alive ; Third, is the perfect loft which does not divo Into the ditch, but drops and rolls serene Straight towards the hole: and fourth, the keen Joy with a worthy foernan well to strive. Fifth is the noble putt, so fair and true, Which like an arrow speeds towards the hole, And makes the sky look bright, tho' it be stormy: Sixth, is a bole in hand, when all looked blue : And seventh the crowning joy which calms the soul— The almost perfect bliss of being dormy !

Now read the second! Tho' his soul be harrowed By recollection, he shall not refuse The bays. The scope of Art must not be narrowed, For Man's whole life is province of the MuBe ! A EWBSOME Af KtfE.

POET. THE GOLFER'S SORROWS.

Seven are the golfer's sorrows. Foremost, first, The maddening foozle from the up-torn tee ; Second, the blacken'd ball which ought to be Clean hit, but's badly topp'd. Then third and worst, The ball within the bunher, most accurst; Fourth, the foul slice which lands him in the sea Or pond: and fifth, the pull which makes him free Of words, and for the caddie's blood athirst. Sixth, is the bad approach which tempts to swear; Seventh, the perfidious, the fatal putt Which trembles on the lip, but won't fall in ; Seven are a golfer's sorrows, sore to bear :— Each of the six might try a good saint—but The seventh and last would make an angel sin !

&OL1''EK. Altho' but one brief week you've used the putter, You know the whole gamut of Golf's joys and pains ; How, when a year's experiences you utter, The world will listen to your nioviug strains ! A tOtJKSOMB A* BYE. 59

The Orpheua of the pastime, so entrancing Will be his lyrics, in a few brief weekis AH Europe's regiments will be shore wards dancing, Their murd'rous bayonets beaten into cleeks! GOLTES. The mighty potentates and politicians "Whose pawns are nations, will be then appali'd With fear— TYEO. They may not answer our conditions— That at our best links they will be black-ball'd !

How will the questions which embroil the nations And soak the earth with blood, be settled then ? Tyno. Upon the links, and lighten the taxations Which weigh, like Atlas, on all toiling men ! The Boanerges of the realm of Prussia With his best player* to our land will hie, And send a challenge to the Czar of Russia To settle matters on the links of Eye ! POET. My friends, I thank you for your good opinion Of my small powers. Would 'twere not a joke To dream the claims of power and dominion Could be decided by a putter's stroke ! A FOtfKSOME AT RYE.

ANTIQUABT. The proposition is not worth a stiver ! I fear—altho' our play has peaceful been, That the first weapon was a knotty driver, k And the first fight was on a putting green ! POET. In fact, the peaceful apeB you say invented The sport of Golf, were apathetic quite, Until their keenness for the game presented A valid motive for a murd'rous fight ? GOIFEB. Hurrah, for Golf then! That it nerves and braces The muscles for life's battle ! Will you blame This dictum,—that the plauet'H crowning races Will be the best exponents of the game ? POET. Not 1 ! while the tempest urges The spume along the sands— While the black rocks churn the surges, And the billows chafe the lands ; In the eternal tussle Darwin divined so well, Endurance, mind, and muscle, Must aye bear off the bell. And where is the sport which needs thorn, Tho' the unenlightened scoff— More than the game which feeds them, The Eoyal game of Golf ? A FOVBSOME AT BYE. TYRO. Long Life to the Royal Game! GOLFER. May its links enchain the world ANTIQUARY. Long life to England's fame ! POET. And Freedom's flag outf url'd ! ANTIQUARY. Live England, " dene and strand ! " (14)

May her glory never die ! POET. God save our Mother-land! TYRO. And the " good towne of Rye ! " NOTES.

(1) According to tradition, the church clock was given to the town by Queen Eliza- beth ; from the Church records, however, it appears that the clock was set up at the expense of the town in 1561-2. (2) The Barons of the Cinque Ports had the right to carry canopies of siJk and gold over the King at his coronation, and to " have the table nearest to his table, at his right hand, and there to sit at dinner." The ancient right was last exercised at the coronation of George IV. See Holloway's History of Eye. (3) The ballad referred to is given in Holloway's Rye, page 609. " The True Mayde of the South, or A rare example of a Mayde dwelling at Rie, in Sussex, who, for the love of a young man of Lestershire, went beyond sea in the habit of a page, and after, to their hearts' content, were both marryedatMagrum, in G-ermauy, and now dwelling at Eie afore- said. To the tune of ' Come, come, my sweet and bonny one.' " (4) Edward the Confessor gave the revenues of llye and Winehelsea to the monks of Fecamp in Normandy. The gift was revoked by Henry III. A.D. 124(5, as that monarch found " that the friars alien had too easy an access to the shores of England, which gave them a power, they were probably ii. not slow to exercise, of conveying intelligence of the secret affairs of his kingdom abroad." Holloway's History of Rye, p. 4. (5) In August 1350, tbore was a memorable sea fight off Winchelsea, when Edward III and his son, the Black Prince, defeated a greatly superior fleet under Don Carlos do la Cerda. Holloway's History of Eye, p. 57. (6) Queen Elizabeth visited Eye, AugUBt 12to, 1573, when " for the noble entertainment she had, accompanied with the testimonies of love and loyalty, duty and reverence, she received from the people, she was pleased to call it " Eye Eoyall! ". Jeake, " Charters of of the Cinque Ports." 1728. (7) 1725. Mem. " That King George I. landed at Eye on Monday, January 3rd, being driven into our bay by a storm, on his return from Hanover, and stayed here till Friday, January 7th, and stood godfather to Mr. Lamb's child on the 5th. (Church Eegister). Holloway's History of Rye, p. 519. The Lambs were an influential family in Rye during the 18th Century. (6) " We have also granted to them of our special grace that of their proper wines, for which they trade, they be quit of our right prise (that is to say) of one ton of wine before the mast, and another after the mast." Charier of Edward I, signed at West- minster, June 17th, A.D. 1277. til. (9) Camber CaBtle was built by Henry VIII, about 1539. It was dismantled iu 1642. When the castle was erected " the sea flowed very close to its walls on the south, east, and north sides, and having passed the latter, it formed a large bay, running back as far as Winchelsea, and covering the whole expanse between the east side of this town and the west side of Rye, which constituted one general harbour for the two ports." Hollo- way's History of Rye, p. 304. (10). the Eev. Eichard Fletcher, father of the dramatist, was Vicar of Eye, 1574-1583. The poet was born in Eye, December 1579, and died of the plague in London, 1625. He was the author of "The Faithful Shepherdesse." a pastoral poem much admired by Milton. " My promise will find credit with the most, When they know ingenious Fletcher made it—he Being in himself a, perfect comedy: And some sit here, I doubt not, dare aver Living, he made that house a theatre Which he pleased to frequent." Prologue to " The Chances." by Fletcher. (11) "Wesley was at Eye in 1773, 1778, 1789 and 1700. [Ie wrote in his Journal. 1773. Monday, Nov. 22. " J net out for Sussex and found abundance of people willing to hear the G-ood Word, at Rye in particular. And they do many things gladly ; but they will not part with the accursed thing—smuggling. So I fear, with regard to these, our labour will be in vain! " IV. (12) The Eev. John Philpotfc was Vicar of Eye 154,5-1574. He thus " had first to fit his teaching to the mongrel Protestantism of Henry VIII; nest to the purified Protestantism of Edward VI, then to perform all the pompous ceremonies of the Church of Some, as restored by Queen Mary : and finally, for sixteen years to drop all of these, and adapt himself to the ecclesiastical demands of good Queen Bess. He needed some elasticity of conscience to keep himsblf safe from the arms of the law at such times." (TheEev. A. T. Saville. "Ancient Eye.") (13) The Monastery of the Augustine Friars was on Conduit Hill. Part of the original building is now used as a barracks by the Salvation Army. (14) " And that they may have den and strand at Great Yarmouth, according to that which is contained in the ordinance thereof by us made and perpetually to be observed." Charter of Edward I. 127*7. See Holloway's Eye. pp. 92 et seq. "The quarrels between the bailiffs of the Cinque Ports and those of Q-reafc Yarmouth reached such a, height that a bailiff of the Cinque Ports was killed in a fray by a Yar- mouth bailiff, for which the latter was hanged: and the town ever afterwards had to pay a certain number of herrings to Windsor Castle, oi1 a sum of money instead thereof. To this day herring-pies form part of the quit-rent to the Crown." Ilolloway's Eye p. 197.