All audio files can be found on our catalog page: https://librivox.org/to-the-common-golfer-by-t-w-h-crosland/
Each fortnight a poem is chosen to be recorded by as many LibriVox volunteers as possible!Thomas William Hodgson Crosland was a British author, poet, journalist and friend of royalty. ( Wikipedia)
This fortnight's poem can be found here.
[*] Project Code: zBGFbtcs
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Bit Rate: 128 kbps
Sample Rate: 44100 kHz
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Begin your reading with the abbreviated LibriVox disclaimer:
No more than 0.5 to 1 second of silence at the beginning of the recording!
Then read the poem:To The Common Golfer by T. W. H. Crosland, read for LibriVox.org by [your name].
[Add, if you wish, date, your location, and/or your personal url.]
My dear Common Golfer,—
The game you affect
Is a great game
Played by yourself
And all the crowned heads of Europe,
Not to mention all the fat persons who desire to bant,
All the thin persons who desire to become
Vigorous and muscular, as it were,
All the clerks who desire to pass for dukes,
And all the dukes who relish the society of clerks.
It is a great game:
The people who play it are not the fault of the game.
It is also a good game.
If I am not mistaken,
It is a game that originally came out of Scotland;
Therefore it must be a good game.
For everything that comes out of Scotland is good,
Even the Scot.
And golf being a great and good game
I do not see any tremendous reason
Why you, my dear Common Golfer,
Should not engage in it if you so choose.
On the other hand, I wish from the bottom of my heart
That you did not engage in it.
I know a bank
Whereon the wild thyme blows
(Or ought to blow):
Oft of a pleasant summer morn
Have I taken a cheap ticket
To a station which is not far from that bank,
And there (on the bank, that is to say) reclined me
What time I looked up into the blue dome,
And watched the lazy-pacing clouds,
And flicked away the midges,
And wished my name was Corydon,
And remembered bits of Keats
And bits of Herrick
And bits of business,
And so forth.
Oft, I say, have I done these things;
But of late I no longer do them,
Inasmuch as my bank
Has become (if I may so term it)
Golf-ridden.
The other day I repaired to the said bank
On rural musings bent.
What did I find?
Why, my dear old thymy bank
Was in the possession
Of half a dozen gross fellows in red coats,
Thy had pipes in their mouths,
And a jar of beer in their midst,
And they were actually talking and laughing
In the most uproarious fashion.
I heard one of them say
"Why did Arthur Bawl-Fore?"
And the others thought hard,
And trifled with their brassies and things,
And could not make answer.
O, my dear Common Golfer,
You were of that party;
You were;
You are always of such parties,
You are always sitting
On other people's thymy banks,
And saying, "Why did So-and-so so-and-so?"
And depleting village public-houses of good beer,
And turning whole village populations into caddies,
And dotting the landscape with your red coats,
And generally appropriating the fair face of Nature.
I cannot stop you, my dear Common Golfer,
I cannot, O I cannot!
Would that I could. O would that I could!
In which case, perhaps, I wouldn't.
No, my dear boy,
Rural England is yours,
Also the sea-side,
Take them, old man, take them;
I hand them over to you with the best heart in the world.
Take them—they are yours—
And excuse these tears.
At the end of your reading, leave a space and then say:
End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
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(And remember, anyone can suggest a poem for a certain week and/or coordinate an upcoming fortnightly poem! If you'd like to suggest a poem or coordinate a future Fortnightly Poetry project, please visit this thread.)
Here's mine, as well: