Ulster Scots bard gets into golfing swing

Ulster Scots poet Wilson Burgess. (60712JC1)
Ulster Scots poet Wilson Burgess. (60712JC1)

Derry’s very own Ulster Scots bard, Wilson Burgess, has been asked by the Ulster Scots Agency to write a poem in honour of Ulster’s superstar trinity of Open Golf Champions.

The publication of the poem ‘Tee Friens’ coincided with the Irish Open i Portrush.

No matter that the Graeme, Rory or Darren didn’t win the ‘Irish’, their wonderful achievements have been immortalised in the ‘Hamely Tongue’ in a humorous way.

In October this year, Wilson Burgess will travel to France and Belgium to present a television programme during which he will read his poem ‘The Oul Sodger’, penned as a tribute to The Fallen.

The golf poem, ‘Tee Friens’, will be launched later this year, but for those who fancy a preview....

You’ve heerd o’ Arnold Palmer an lothario Tiger‘s fray,

How Jack Nicklaus loast tae Watson at the battle o’ Turnburray,

Ah’ll gie yaes a page o’ history an’ the book haes no baen shut’

An thats the glory story o, three boys who made the cut.

Thir wiz Grinder Graeme Mc Dowell wae haes Mid Atlantic drawl,

Who’d ta’k the three legs aff a stool aboot drivin’ the golf ball,

‘Dad we’ll cross the pond,’ the Port man drawled, ‘ these Yankee boys Ah’ll teach,’

An hae won their US Open on the links o’ Pebble Beach.

Nixt forrit stepped young Rory, big game wae a lang bal,’

‘Ah’ll hit the road for Augusta,’ sez he, ‘Ah hear the Master’s cal,’

But yells o ‘ paralysed terror riz up frae crowded banks,

Haes bal’ wiz stuck amang the trees becas’o’ yin bad shank.

‘P J we’re balked,’ young Rory cried, ‘here ends our grand campaign,

But he that melts an’ rins awa will live tae fight again,’

An sure enuch within twa months wee Rory he stud tal,’

The U S Open sought, won at a trot on the big Congressional.

Noo ooer at the West Bay bar a sleepin’ giant awoke,

‘That Ah haenae won an Open,’ sez he, ‘is naethin but a joke,’

But then he spied a notice that left Darren Clarke unnerved,

‘For a man without an Open nae mair Guinness will bae served,’

This wiz blatant provocation an’ made big Darren cross,

So hae got on the phone tae Chubby aboot this calamitous loss,

‘We,ll soart it oot at Sandwich,’ noo Chubby’s drift wiz plain,

For big Darren won The Open an’ houls high haes heid again.

An’ that’s the glory story o’ these exalted three,

Thir glorious deeds o’ golf seared in ooer memory,

An’ when the greats o’ golf are tak’d aboot bae name,

These three will bae remembered they brocht honour tae the game.