That man, I'll swear, is not alive
More temperate in speech,
But every time you fan your drive
I get beyond your reach.
That God is partial to the plaid,
Long-suffering, too, I've heard;
I hope He was the day I had
You stymied on the third;
I cannot vouch for rumour, but
One thing I trust is clear,
That when He saw you miss your putt,
He turned His one deaf ear.
I'm thankful, too, that when you dub
Your spoon, it's not on me
You break your new steel-shafted club,
But on your Highland knee.
And wise I have been to abstain
From comments on your stance,
With pibrochs crashing through your brain,
Culloden through your glance.
(Columbus, Ohio, 1930)
WAITING their turn to be identified,
After their fiery contact with the walls,
Three hundred pariahs ranged side by side
Upon the floors along the cattle stalls!
The fires consumed their numbers with their breath,
Charred out their names: though many of the dead
Gave proof of valour, just before their death,
That Caesar's legions might have coveted.