A Poem by Gordon Paterson (Adrian’s father) c1985
On fourteenth of November, nineteen eighty four,
a start was made to doggerel and some have asked for more;
to you who do not like it, I shout a warning “Fore”
and try to cover briefly our waggish Sandy lore.
There’s Lucas and there’s Denness, Andrew Duncan, Dillammore,
between them they confess to four score years times four;
there Jackson and there’s Hudson, the mighty swing of Hall –
to me it is a mystery how club face meets the ball,
although it is admitted that Ernest has been seen
swinging on the ninth while playing to fourteen!
There’s Paterson the Great and Paterson the Small –
(I refer to golf ability ‘cos neither’s very tall) –
there’s Morton and there’s Nicholl who prance about on wheels
avoiding all the weariness my aged body feels.
There’s Murphy and there’s Barton, Basil Amos who does try
to keep the place in order with skilful D.I.Y.
There’s Remlinger the Frenchman, with caustic Gallic wit-
does he try to put me off, just a little bit?
“Bien sur”, il dit, et riant, “seulement entre nous
epreuve tu est, encore brave homme – le mettes dans le trou!
And then there’s Alex Haslett – I can tell you of his rub –
not only lost a ball one day, he nearly lost a club!
There’s Tapping and there’s Strachan – the latter is our scribe –
presides upon each Wednesday – draws lots to split the tribe;
there’s Mummery, there’s Brampton who this year bust a gut
but though he couldn’t swing a cub, he still came up to putt.
There are so very many who grace our golfing scene –
Bennett, Croft and Imber, Donald Brown and E.Serene –
it’s sad I cannot mention all the Wags in this doxology,
to them and all their womenfolk, I tender meek apology;
To all you waggish women, ensure he makes a will –
and if it should be needful, append this codicil
“That when my aged spirit departs to seek its heaven
don’t cremate me on a Wednesday, unless before eleven”!