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The 8 Best Golf Poems Ever – Inspirational Golf Poems

scenic view of a golf green
scenic view of a golf green

What are the best golf poems ever? Poems are truly vehicles full of metaphors and other tools that can inspire our soul and make us feel relatable emotions. Fortunately, poems have spread to talk about golf, even centuries ago, and we have selected some poems for you to read. You can find the best poems ever down below!

Top 8 Best Golf Poems Ever

Down below is a curated list of some of our favorite golf poems (the last one is not a biased selection at all)! These are the best golf poems ever.

“Far And Sure!”, by Late Sheriff Logan

“FAR and sure! far and sure!” ’twas the cry of our fathers,

‘Twas a cry which their forefathers heard;

‘Tis the cry of their sons when the mustering gathers:

When we’re gone may it still be the word.

“Far and sure!” there is honour and hope in the sound;

Long over these Links may it roll!

It will—O it will! for each face around

Shows its magic is felt in each soul.

Let it guide us in life; at the desk or the bar,

It will shield us from folly’s gay lure;

Then, tho’ rough be the course, and the winning post far,

We will carry the stakes—O be sure!

Let it guide us in Golf, whether “Burgess” or “Star;”

At the last round let none look demure:

All Golfers are brothers when driving is far,

When putting is canny and sure.

“Far and sure! far and sure!” fill the bumper and drain it,

May our motto for ever endure;

May time never maim it, nor dishonour stain it;

Then drink, brothers, drink, “Far and sure!”

This poem is an excerpt from Poems on Golf, a poetry compilation by the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society.

The First Or Bridge Hole

SACRED to hope and promise is the spot—

To Philp’s and to the Union Parlour near,

To every Golfer, every caddie dear—

Where we strike off—oh, ne’er to be forgot,

Although in lands most distant we sojourn.

But not without its perils is the place;

Mark the opposing caddie’s sly grimace,

Whispering: “He’s on the road!” “He’s in the burn!”

So is it often in the grander game

Of life, when, eager, hoping for the palm,

Breathing of honour, joy, and love and fame,

Conscious of nothing like a doubt or qualm,

We start, and cry: “Salute us, muse of fire!”

And the first footstep lands us in the mire.

This poem is an excerpt from Poems on Golf, a poetry compilation by the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society.

The Hell Hole

WHAT daring genius first yclept thee Hell?

What high, poetic, awe-struck grand old Golfer,

Much more of a mythologist than scoffer!

Whoe’er he was, the name befits thee well.

“All hope abandon, ye who enter here,”

Is written awful o’er thy gloomy jaws,

A threat to all save Allan might give pause:

And frequent from within come tones of fear—

Dread sound of cleeks, which ever fall in vain,

And—for mere mortal patience is but scanty—

Shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain,

Dire gnashings of the teeth, and horrid curses,

With which I need not decorate my verses,

Because, in fact, you’ll find them all in Dante.

This poem is an excerpt from Poems on Golf, a poetry compilation by the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society.

The Golfer’s Garland

OF rural diversions, too long has the chase

All the honours usurped, and assumed the chief place;

But truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim,

That Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen,

And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green;

From vig’rous exertions our pleasures arise,

And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

O’er the green see our heroes in uniform clad,

In parties well matched how they gracefully spread,

Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal,

And with putt well directed plump into the hole.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

From exercise keen, from strength active and bold,

We traverse the green, and forget to grow old;

Blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care,

Are knock’d down by our balls as they whiz through the air.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

The strong-sinew’d son of Alcmena would drub,

And demolish a monster when armed with a club;

But what were the monsters which Hercules slew,

To those fiends which each week with our balls we subdue?

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame,

Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game:

A sport so distinguished the fair must approve;

So to Golf give the day and the evening to love.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

Our first standing toast we to Golfing assign,

No other amusement so truly divine;

It has charms for the aged, as well as the young,

Then as first of field sports let its praises be sung.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

And to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill,

A bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill;

Our charming instructresses—blessings attend them,

And cursed be the clown who would dare to offend them!

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

The next we shall drink to our friends far and near;

To the mem’ry of those who no longer appear,

Who have play’d their last round, and passed over that bourne

From which the best Golfer can never return.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

Then fill up your glass, and let each social soul

Drink to the putter, the balls, and the hole;

And may every true Golfer invariably find

His opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind.

With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.

This poem is an excerpt from Poems on Golf, a poetry compilation by the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society.

The First Hole At St.Andrews On A Crowded Day

‘TIS morn! and man awakes, by sleep refresh’d,

To do whate’er he has to do with zest;

But at St. Andrews, where my scene is laid,

One only thought can enter every head;

The thought of Golf, to wit—and that engages

Men of all sizes, tempers, ranks, and ages;

The root—the primum mobile of all,

The epidemic of the club and ball;

The work by day, the source of dreams by night,

The never-failing fountain of delight!

Here, Mr. Philp, club-maker, is as great

As Philip—as any minister of state!

And every caddy as profess’d a hero

As Captain Cook, or Wellington, or Nero!

For instance—Davie, oldest of the cads,

Who gives half-one to unsuspicious lads,

When he might give them two, or even more,

And win, perhaps, three matches out of four,

Is just as politic in his affairs

As Talleyrand or Metternich in theirs.

He has the statesman’s elements, ’tis plain,

Cheat, flatter, humbug—anything for gain;

And had he trod the world’s wide field, methinks,

As long as he has trod St. Andrews Links,

He might have been prime minister, or priest,

My lord, or plain Sir David at the least!

Now, to the ground of Golf my muse shall fly,

The various men assembled to descry,

Nine-tenths of whom, throughout the rolling year,

At the first hole unfailingly appear;

Where, “How d’ye do?” “Fine morning,” “Rainy day,”

And, “What’s the match?” are preludes to the play.

So full the meeting that I scarcely can,

In such a crowd, distinguish man from man.

We’ll take them as they come:—He next the wall,

Outside, upon the right, is Mr. Saddell;

And well he plays, though, rising on his toes,

Whiz round his head his supple club he throws.

There, Doctor Moodie, turtle-like, displays

His well-filled paunch, and swipes beyond all praise;

While Cuttlehill, of slang and chatter chief,

Provokes the bile of Captain George Moncrieffe.

See Colonel Playfair, shaped in form rotund,

Parade, the unrivall’d Falstaff of the ground;

He laughs and jokes, plays, “what you like,” and yet

You’ll rarely find him make a foolish bet.

Against the sky, display’d in high relief,

I see the figure of Clanranald’s Chief,

Dress’d most correctly in the fancy style,

Well-whisker’d face, and radiant with a smile;

He bows, shakes hands, and has a word for all—

So did Beau Nash, as master of the ball!

Near him is Saddell, dress’d in blue coat plain,

With lots of Gourlays, free from spot or stain;

He whirls his club to catch the proper swing,

And freely bets round all the scarlet ring;

And swears by Ammon, he’ll engage to drive

As long a ball as any man alive!

That’s Major Playfair, a man of nerve unshaken—

He knows a thing or two, or I’m mistaken;

And when he’s press’d, can play a tearing game,

He works for certainty and not for Fame!

There’s none—I’ll back the assertion with a wager—

Can play the heavy iron like the Major.

Next him is Craigie Halkett, one who can

Swipe out, for distance, against any man;

But in what course the ball so struck may go,

No looker on—not he himself—can know.

See Major Holcroft, he’s a steady hand

Among the best of all the Golfing band;

He plays a winning game in every part,

But near the hole displays the greatest art.

There young Patullo stands, and he, methinks,

Can drive the longest ball upon the Links;

And well he plays the spoon and iron, but

He fails a little when he comes to putt.

Near Captain Cheape, a sailor by profession

(But not so good at Golf as navigation),

Is Mr. Peter Glass, who once could play

A better game than he can do to-day.

We cannot last for ever! and the gout,

Confirmed, is wondrous apt to put us out.

There, to the left, I see Mount-Melville stand

Erect, his driving putter in his hand;

It is a club he cannot leave behind,

It works the balls so well against the wind.

Sir David Erskine has come into play,

He has not won the medal yet, but may.

Dost love the greatest laugher of the lot?—

Then play a round with little Mr. Scott:

He is a merry cock, and seems to me

To win or lose with equal ecstasy.

Here’s Mr. Messieux, he’s a noble player,

But something nervous—that’s a bad affair;

It sadly spoils his putting, when he’s press’d—

But let him win, and he will beat the best.

That little man that’s seated on the ground

In red, must be Carnegie, I’ll be bound!

A most conceited dog, not slow to go it

At Golf, or anything—a sort of poet;

He talks to Wood—John Wood—who ranks among

The tip-top hands that to the Club belong;

And Oliphant, the rival of the last,

Whose play, at times, can scarcely be surpass’d.

Who’s he that’s just arrived?—I know him well;

It is the Cupar Provost, John Dalzell:

When he does hit the ball, he swipes like blazes—

It is but seldom, and himself amazes;

But when he winds his horn, and leads the chase,

The Laird of Lingo’s in his proper place.

It has been said that, at the break of day

His Golf is better than his evening play:

That must be scandal; for I am sure that none

Could think of Golf before the rise of sun.

He now is talking to his lady’s brother,

A man of politics, Sir Ralph Anstruther:

Were he but once in Parliament, methinks,

And working there as well as on the Links,

The burghs, I’ll be bound, would not repent them

That they had such a man to represent them:

There’s one thing only—when he’s on the roll,

He must not lose his nerve, as when he’s near the hole.

Upon his right is Major Bob Anstruther;

Cobbet’s one radical—and he’s another.

But when we meet, as here, to play at Golf,

Whig, Radical, and Tory—all are off—

Off the contested politics, I mean—

And fun and harmony illume the scene.

We make our matches from the love of playing,

Without one loathsome feeling but the paying,

And that is lessened by the thought, we borrow

Only to-day what we shall win to-morrow.

Then, here’s prosperity to Golf! and long

May those who play be cheerful, fresh, and strong;

When driving ceases, may we still be able

To play the shorts, putt, and be comfortable!

And to the latest may we fondly cherish

The thoughts of Golf—so let St. Andrews flourish!

This poem is an excerpt from Poems on Golf, a poetry compilation by the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society.

The Golfiad

BALLS, clubs, and men I sing, who first, methinks,

Made sport and bustle on North Berwick Links,

Brought coin and fashion, betting, and renown,

Champagne and claret, to a country town,

And lords and ladies, knights and squires, to ground

Where washerwomen erst and snobs were found!

Had I the powers of him who sung of Troy—

Gem of the learned, bore of every boy—

Or him, the bard of Rome, who, later, told

How great Æneas roam’d and fought of old—

I then might shake the gazing world like them;

For who denies I have as grand a theme?

Time-honour’d Golf!—I heard it whisper’d once

That he who could not play was held a dunce

On old Olympus, when it teem’d with gods.

O rare!—but it’s a lie—I’ll bet the odds!

No doubt these heathen gods, the very minute

They knew the game, would have delighted in it!

Wars, storms, and thunders—all would have been off!

Mars, Jove, and Neptune would have studied Golf,

And swiped—like Oliphant and Wood below—

Smack over hell at one immortal go!

Had Mecca’s Prophet known the noble game

Before he gave his paradise to fame,

He would have promis’d, in the land of light,

Golf all the day—and Houris all the night!

But this is speculation: we must come,

And work the subject rather nearer home;

Lest, in attempting all too high to soar,

We fall, like Icarus, to rise no more.

The game is ancient—manly—and employs,

In its departments, women, men, and boys:

Men play the game, the boys the clubs convey,

And lovely woman gives the prize away,

When August brings the great, the medal day!

Nay, more: tho’ some may doubt, and sneer, and scoff,

The female muse has sung the game of Goff,

And trac’d it down, with choicest skill and grace,

Thro’ all its bearings, to the human race;

The tee, the start of youth—the game, our life—

The ball when fairly bunkered, man and wife.

Now, Muse, assist me while I strive to name

The varied skill and chances of the game.

Suppose we play a match: if all agree,

Let Clan and Saddell tackle Baird and me.

Reader, attend! and learn to play at Goff;

The lord of Saddell and myself strike off!

He strikes—he’s in the ditch—this hole is ours;

Bang goes my ball—it’s bunker’d, by the pow’rs.

But better play succeeds, these blunders past,

And in six strokes the hole is halved at last.

O hole! tho’ small, and scarcely to be seen,

Till we are close upon thee, on the green;

And tho’ when seen, save Golfers, few can prize,

The value, the delight that in thee lies;

Yet, without thee, our tools were useless all—

The club, the spoon, the putter, and the ball:

For all is done—each ball arranged on tee,

Each stroke directed—but to enter thee!

If—as each tree, and rock, and cave of old,

Had its presiding nymph, as we are told—

Thou hast thy nymph; I ask for nothing but

Her aid propitious when I come to putt.

Now for the second: And here Baird and Clan

In turn must prove which is the better man:

Sir David swipes sublime!—into the quarry!

Whiz goes the chief—a sneezer, by Old Harry!

“Now, lift the stones, but do not touch the ball,

The hole is lost if it but move at all:

Well play’d, my cock! you could not have done more;

‘Tis bad, but still we may get home at four.”

Now, near the hole Sir David plays the odds;

Clan plays the like, and wins it, by the gods!

“A most disgusting steal; well, come away,

They’re one ahead, but we have four to play.

We’ll win it yet, if I can cross the ditch:

They’re over, smack! come, there’s another sich.”

Baird plays a trump—we hole at three—they stare,

And miss their putt—so now the match is square.

And here, who knows but, as old Homer sung,

The scales of fight on Jove’s own finger hung?

Here Clan and Saddell; there swing Baird and I,—

Our merits, that’s to say; for half an eye

Could tell, if bodies in the scales were laid,

Which must descend, and which must rise ahead.

If Jove were thus engaged, we did not see him,

But told our boys to clean the balls and tee ’em.

In this next hole the turf is most uneven;

We play like tailors—only in at seven,

And they at six; most miserable play!

But let them laugh who win. Hear Saddell say,

“Now, by the piper who the pibroch played

Before old Moses, we are one ahead,

And only two to play—a special coup!

Three five-pound notes to one!” “Done, sir, with you.”

We start again; and in this dangerous hole

Full many a stroke is played with heart and soul:

“Give me the iron!” either party cries,

As in the quarry, track, or sand he lies.

We reach the green at last, at even strokes;

Some caddy chatters, that the chief provokes,

And makes him miss his putt; Baird holes the ball;

Thus, with but one to play, ’tis even all!

‘Tis strange, and yet there cannot be a doubt,

That such a snob should put a chieftain out:

The noble lion, thus, in all his pride,

Stung by the gadfly, roars and starts aside;

Clan did not roar—he never makes a noise—

But said, “They’re very troublesome, these boys.”

His partner muttered something not so civil,

Particularly, “scoundrels”—”at the devil!”

Now Baird and Clan in turn strike off and play

Two strokes, the best that have been seen to-day.

His spoon next Saddell takes, and plays a trump—

Mine should have been as good but for a bump

That turn’d it off. Baird plays the odds—it’s all

But in!—at five yards, good, Clan holes the ball!

My partner, self, and song—all three are done!

We lose the match, and all the bets thereon!

Perhaps you think that, tho’ I’m not a winner,

My muse should stay and celebrate the dinner;

The ample joints that travel up the stair,

To grace the table spread by Mrs. Blair;

The wine, the ale, the toasts, the jokes, the songs,

And all that to such revelry belongs;—

It may not be! ’twere fearful falling off

To sing such trifles after singing Golf

In most majestic strain; let others dwell

On such, and rack their carnal brains to tell

A tale of sensuality!—Farewell!

This poem is an excerpt from Poems on Golf, a poetry compilation by the Edinburgh Burgess Golfing Society.

Golf Season Is Here

“May all your drives find fairways

And may they travel far

May irons find a place to land

That helps you to break par

May your wedge float high then softly drop

May your chips caress the slope

May your putts locate that perfect break

To always give you hope”

-Daniel Mark

Mood Swing, by Sports Ruby

What warms my heart after a cold night

Is next morning at the beginning of daylight

The cold and the moodiness I easily fight

When I lay my eyes on such a beautiful sight

The greens stand flat before me

The belly becomes more and more hungry

Hungry for adventure and balls in the air

As the wind blows swiftly and caresses my hair

There is nothing like golf for me

A game that changes my mood instantly

Golf is a game for one and all

A place to gather & create stories to recall

My heart warms every time I’m on the green

My mind filled and sharpened with memories so pristine

Never will I forget these nights with my friends

Dear memories I will hold until my end


Hopefully, you enjoyed these poems that should be some of the best golf poems ever! These poems sure inspired us and heightened our love for golf, and we hope you feel similarly! Happy golfing, and go out there and make great memories playing golf!

What’s your favorite poem on this list? Share your thoughts with the other readers in the comments!

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