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UNDER the title of "Classics
for the Club-Men``
the following appeared in Golf Illustrated of
June 28, 1901: TOM MORRIS
(Ecce, Senex Andreamus)
Frae the Latin, by A Lang, not
literally translated, and with apologies, to the author of John Peel] Dae ye ken an auld man,
Wha's famous and so forth;
A part, tae, o' the shrine
In a Mecca o' the North?
Dae ye ken an auld man
Mair worshipped than the Saint
O' the grand auld city of St Andrews?
Dae ye ken an auld man,
Wha's naething of a "toff,"
Wears ony sort o' jacket
At the Royal game o' golf?
Dae ye ken the auld man,
The doyen o' the craft,
In the golf-mad toon o' St Andrews?
Dae ye km an auld man,
The Youthfu' golfer's frien',
Wha gi'es ye sage advice
Wi' a sparkle in his een?
Dae ye ken the auld man,
Wha says, "Tak' plenty san' "
His e'en tae St Andrews?
Dae ye ken an auld man
(A gentleman, indeed;
Tho' whiles, when he is vexed,
You may hear him gie a screed
O' words, that may not
Be the Apostolic Creed)?
The "Classics" on the links o' St Andrews?
But our dwelling's so transparent
That we daurna throw a stone.
There's Hades here and always
For golfing folks alone.
So such lapses we forgie,
Aye, an' wink the other ee,
Tae the grand auld man o' St Andrews.
Dae ye ken an auld man
O' missionary fame,
Aye opening new links
In the interests o' "the game"?
Is it true he'll sometimes say,
On a drop o' dry champagne:
"Your links are as good as St Andrews?"
Yes, Mr Andrew Lang, we "a' ken the auld
man" and are very, very proud of him. And we
know that in his true old heart- just as well as
we know in our own hearts there are no
links in all the world like the links of St
Andrews.
To him and the writer of the story of his life
this must ever be the case. To Andrew Lang,
and to many more, St Andrews is a haunted
town. To Tom Morris, and to many of us, its
links are haunted links haunted happily, yet
sadly (do not the two always go together, and
are they ever far separated?) haunted by the
most sacred of memories, and by forms that are
the dearest to us that our eyes are ever likely
to see! The Club-House, the starting-tee, the
road, the burn, the bridge, the old station, the "Principal's Nose," the "Ginger-Beer" hole,
"Hell," "The Elysian Fields," and "The
Shepherd's Cottage" alike are haunted.
Haunted, too, the wonderful putting-green at the
fifth, "Walkinshaw's Grave," the "Heathery"
hole, the "High" hole, the "Short" hole, the "End" hole, where one would meet us and walk
home all the haunted way with us. "It was here
and here. It was there and there that this and
this, and that and that happened." Here we
laughed till we were like to cry. There, things
happened that make our eyes dim to think of,
were our lips not filled with laughter and our
tongues with singing, for we know it is well with those who thus made our
happiness, and we are
like those who dream when we look up into the
fair sky haunted by their sweet presences, and
when we remember the Re-union is not so far on
as once it was. There are not so many miles of
the weary way to go till we reach the Golden City
of our later dreams. The larks in the blue lift
sing of the glad time. The little waves, tipped
with their white crests, whisper of it as they die of love upon the sands
they caress. We catch
sight of the Towers that keep sentinel over the
Silent City where the dear ones sleep; where we,
too, shall be laid to rest in hearing of the sea
that moaned about our cradle and shall moan
about our graves, and shall sing our Requiem while
other eyes and other faces of the new generation
will make pilgrimage to our resting-places.
And well pleased, dear Old Tom, will they be
to know that on these links of St Andrews you
are alive for evermore and that your memory will
never be forgotten.
Well pleased, too, shall I be if in the course of
time my memory may be linked in however small
a way with your immortal one as he who, amid
labours and honours not a few, valued by the
many perhaps more than by himself, is happy in
having found the leisure and the opportunity to
be the humble chronicler of deeds so great as
yours, and of a life so true, so honest, so noble
and so loving as your own.
To us these things are still in the future,
though it cannot be the long future it must be
more or less short. Meantime, it is a matter of
gladness to me that I have been able to bring this
chronicle to a close, while its subject is still alive
and as well as one of his years can be expected to be. Why, it is only the other day since the
grand old man went out with a friend and played
his 2 holes, and with the rubber-cored ball, too!
To me it has been a labour of love to write the
story of his life, for as I wrote all the air has
been alive with happy memories and vocal with
the sound of voices familiar as yesterday, though
unheard for long and often wean", love-unillumined years love such as theirs. It has been
a pleasure to know from numerous correspondents
while it passed through the pages of Golfing
that my narrative awakened similar memories in
many hearts and that they have followed the
great golfer's story with lively and affectionate
interest. My thanks are due to these and to the
various correspondents who have helped me to
write this story, and to the Editor of the journal
in which most of it first appeared. My appreciation of his unfailing kindness and courtesy is
indeed great and sincere.
It is pleasant for me also to know that
among the numerous readers of Golfing I have
made many new friends; and it is a matter
of congratulation that TOM MORRIS is still
spared to the world of golf, to his own St
Andrews, to his personal friends, and to the
thousands who, though they have never seen
him in the flesh, regard him with that admiration
and respect and love which is the tribute that is
due to his greatness as a golfer and to his worth
as a man.
Above all, it is pleasant to me to think that
my work has won the appreciation of the grand
old man himself. Long may he still be with us to enjoy the
happy memories which must be his as the recollections of the past troop into
his present and illumine his outlook towards The
Future.
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