THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES G O 1 EDINBURGH iJrintrU for Jrtoatr Circulation SOME Members of THE EDINBURGH BURGESS GOLFING SOCIETY having resolved to collect and print a few fugitive pieces in verse relating to the game of GOLF, the following Poems and Songs have been after some labour procured, and are now printed (some for the first time) for private circulation among the Subscribers whose names are appended. EDINBURGH, April 1867. 958485 CONTENTS. THE Goi'F, an Ileroi-comical Poem . i GOLFIANA Address to St. Andrews . . .20 The Golfiad . . . . . .22 ,, The first Hole at St. Andrews on a crowded day 29 ,, Another Peep at the Links .... 36 THE NINE HOLES OF ST. ANDREWS LINKS . . 48 SCRAP " The following scrap " &c. . . 56 SONG The Golfers' Garland . . . . -57 ,, The Links o' Innerleven ..... 60 ,, In praise of Gutta Percha ..... 63 "Far and Sure" .... 66 ,, " Gae bring my guid auld clubs" .... 68 ,, "Come, leave your clingy desks" . . -73 When Tom and me were laddies" 77 LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. BANNATYNE, ADAM B., Advocate. BARCLAY, JAS., "Writer. BAYLEY, GEO., W.S. BELL, W. H., A.C.S. BEVERIDGE, WILL. T. R., A.C.S. BRODIE, WM., R.S.A. BROWN, W. A., Advocate. BROWN, THOMAS, Writer. BURN, GEORGE, W.S. C ALDER, A., Insurance Manager. CHISHOLM, JOHN K., Dentist. CLARK, AND. R., Advocate. CLARK, R., Printer. CURROR, D., S.S.C. DRUMMOND, JAMES, R.S.A. DRYSDALE WILLIAM, D.C.S. ERASER, WM. N., of Tornaveen. LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. GOUGH, OWEN, Holyroocl Palace. HAY, JAMES, Esq., Leith. HENDERSON, ANDREW, Writer. HENDERSON, DAVID, Writer. HUTCHISON, II., Writer. MUTTON, WM., Writer. JACK, JNO., Writer. JAMIESON, JAMES T., S.S.C. JOHNSTON, ROB., Solicitor. KINNEAR, JAS., Writer. KTRKWOOD, JAMES, Merchant. LANDALE, TIIO., S.S.C. LEE, ROBERT, Advocate. LEGGAT, JAMES, Coal Master. LEISHMAN, JOHN, W.S. MACKENZIE, JOHN, W.S. MACMILLAN. If., Writer. M'KWKN, J., Writer. MANN, W., Writer. M MIA" 1 1. 1, K, F. Sl'TIIER, A.C.S. MIl.l.AR, W.M., IJ.Mi.l -.I Supervision. .\11TC11KLL, A., n.mku. LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS. MONCREIFF, JAMES, M. P., Dean of the Faculty of Advocates. MONCRIEFF, A., Advocate. MORRISON, AD., S.S.C. MURRAY, ANDW., Jun., W.S. PATTISON, G. H., Advocate. REID, WILLIAM, Writer. SHAW, ROBERT B., Assistant Clerk of the Bills. SMITH, DANIEL, Corn Factor. STEVEN, ROBERT, Writer. STEVENSON, PETER, Philosophical Instrument Maker. THOMS, GEO. H., Advocate. THOMPSON, J. GIBSON. THOMSON, JOHN, S.S.C. THOMSON, W. M., Advocate. WADDELL, ALEX. PEDDIE, W.S. WELCH, C., Writer, Cupar. WILLIAMSON, JAMES, Traveller. WILSON, GEO. B., Accountant. YOUNG, J. WM., 22 Royal Circus. THE G O F F. By THOMAS MATHISON, originally a Writer in Edinburgh, and afterwards Minister of Ikechin. Reprinted from the second edition of the Poem. 1763. CANTO I. f~~* OFF, and the Man, I sing, who, em'lous, plies The jointed club, whose balls invade the skies, Who from Retina's tow'rs, his peaceful home. In quest of fame o'er Let/id's plains did roam. Long toil'd the hero, on the verdant field, Strain'd his stout arm the weighty club to wield ; Such toils it cost, such labours to obtain The bays of conquest, and the bowl to gain. O thou GOLFINIA, Goddess of these plains ! Great Patroness of GOFF ! indulge my strains : Whether beneath the tJwrn-trcc shade you lie. Or from Mcrccrian tow'rs the game survey, p, THE GOF1-. Or round the green the flying ball you chase. Or make your bed in some hot sandy face: Leave your much-lov'd abode, inspire his lays Who sings of GOFF, and sings thy fav'rite's praise. North from Edina eight furlongs and more, Lies that fam'd field, on Fort/lets sounding shore. Here Caledonian Chiefs for health resort, Confirm their sinews by the manly sport. Macdonald and unmatch'd Dairy inple ply Their pond'rous weapons, and the green defy ; Rattray for skill, and Corse for strength renown'd, Steivart and Lcs/y beat the sandy ground, And Brown and Alston, Chiefs well known to fame, And numbers more the Muse forbears to name. Gigantic Biggar here full oft is seen, Like huge behemoth on an Indian green ; His bulk enormous scarce can 'scape the eyes, Ama/.'d spectators wonder how he plies. Yea, here great Forbes* patron of the just, The dread of villains and the good man's trust, ' I)uncrm Forbes, Lord ('resident of the Court of Session ii Scotland. THE GOFF. When spent with toils in serving human kind, His body recreates, and unbends his mind. Bright Phoebus now had measur'd half the day, And warm'd the earth with genial noon-tide ray : Forth rush'd Castalio and his daring foe, Both arm'd with clubs, and eager for the blow. Of finest ash Castalio's shaft was made, Pond'rous with lead, and fenc'd with horn the head (The work of Dickson, who in Letha dwells, And in the art of making clubs excels), Which late beneath great Clara's arm did bend, But now is wielded by his greater friend. Not with more fury Norris cleav'd the main, To pour his thund'ring arms on guilty Spain ; Nor with more haste brave Haddock bent his cour.se To guard Minorca from Iberian force, Than thou, intrepid hero, urg'd thy way O'er roads and sands, impatient for the fray. With equal warmth Pygmalion fast pursu'd (With courage oft are little wights endued), 'Till to GOLFINIA'.S downs the heroes came. The scene of combat and the field of fame. THE GOFF. Upon a verdant bank by Flora grac'd, Two sister Fairies found the Goddess plac'd ; Propi)'d by her snowy hand her head reclin'd, Her curling locks hung waving in the wind. She eyes intent the consecrated green, Crowded with waving clubs and vot'ries keen, And hears the prayers of youths to her address'd, And from the hollow face relieves the ball distress'd. On either side the sprightly Dryads sat, And entertained the Goddess with their chat. First VERDURILLA, thus : C) rural Queen ! "What chiefs are those that drive along the green ( With brandish'd clubs the mighty heroes threat. Their eager looks foretell a keen debate. To whom GOLFINIA : Nymph, your eyes behold Pygmalion stout, Castalio brave and bold. From silver Icnia's banks Castalio came, Hut first on Aiulrcan plains he courted fame. His sire, a Druid, taught (one day of seven) The paths of virtue, the sure road to heaven. In Pictisli capital the good man passed His virtuous life, and there he breath'd his lasl. THE C.OF1'. 5 The son now dwells in fair Edina's town. And on our sandy plains pursues renown. See low Pygmalion, skilled in GOFFING art, Small is his size, but dauntless is his heart : Fast by a desk in Ediifs domes he sits, With saids and sick/ikes length'ning out the writs. For no mean prize the rival chiefs contend, But full rewards the victor's toils attend. The vanquish'd hero for the victor fills A mighty bowl containing thirty gills ; With noblest liquor is the bowl replete ; Here sweets and acids, strength and weakness meet. From Indian isles the strength and sweetness flow. And Ttigns 1 banks their golden fruits bestow : Cold Caledonia's lucid streams controul The fiery spirits, and fulfil the bowl : For Albioiis peace and Albion's friends they pray, And drown in Punch the labours of the day. The Goddess spoke, and thus GAMBOLIA pray'd : Permit to join in brave Pygmalion's aid, O'er each deep road the hero to sustain. And guide his ball to the desired plain. THE GOFF. To this the Goddess of the manly sport : Go, and be thou that daring chiefs support. Let VERDURILLA be Castalirfs stay ; I from this flow'ry seat will view the fray. She said : the nymphs trip nimbly o'er the green, And to the combatants approach unseen. END OF CANTO I. CANTO II. YE rural powers that on these plains preside, Ye nymphs that dance on Fortha's flow'ry side. Assist the Muse that in your fields delights, And guide her course in these uncommon flights. But chief, thee, O GOLFINIA ! I implore. High as thy balls instruct my Muse to soar : So may thy green for ever crowded be, And balls on balls invade the azure sky. Now at that hole the chiefs begin the game. Which from the neighb'ring thorn-tree takes its name ; Ardent they grasp the ball-compelling clubs, And stretch their arms t' attack the little globes ; Not as our warriors brandish'd dreadful arms. When fierce Bellona sounded war's alarms ; When conqu'ring Cromwell stain'd fair Eskas flood, And soak'd her banks with Caledonian blood : THE GOFF. Or when our bold ancestors madly fought. And clans engaged for trifles or for nought. That Fury now from our hless'd fields is driv'n, To scourge unhappy nations doom'd by heav'n. Let Kouli Kan destroy the fertile East, Victorious Vernon thunder in the West : Let horrid war involve perfidious Spain, And GEORC.K assert his empire o'er the main : But on our plains Britannia's sons engage. And void of ire the sportive war they wage. Lo, tatter'd Irus, who their armour bears. Upon the green two little pyr'mids rears ; On these they place two balls with careful eye. That with Clarindas breasts for colour vie, The work of Bobson, who, with matchless art. Shapes the firm hide, connecting ev'ry part. Then in a socket sets the well-stitched void. And thro' the eyelet drives the downy tide ; Crowds urging crowds the forceful brogue impels. The feathers harden and the leather swells ; He crams and sweats, yet crams and urges more. Till scarce the turgid globe contains its store ; THE GOFF. The dreadful falcon's pride here blended lies With pigeons' glossy down of various dyes ; The lark's small pinions join the common stock, And yellow glory of the martial cock. Soon as Hyperion gilds old Andrea 's spires, From bed the artist to his cell retires, With bended back, there plies his steely awls, And shapes, and stuffs, and finishes the balls. But when the glorious God. of day has driv'n > His flaming chariot down the steep of heav'n, He ends his labour, and with rural strains Enchants the lovely maids and weary swains : As thro' the streets the blythsome piper plays, In antic dance they answer to his lays ; At ev'ry pause the ravish'd crowd acclaim, And rends the skies with tuneful Bobsoits name. Not more rewarded was old Amphiorfs song, That reared a town, and this drags one along. Such is fam'd Bobson, who in Andrea thrives. And such the balls each vig'rous hero drives. First, bold Castalio, ere he struck the blow, Lean'd on his club, and thus address' d his foe : THE GOW. Dares weak Pygmalion this stout arm defy, Which brave Matthias doth with terror try ? Strong as he is, Moravio owns my might, Distrusts his vigour, and declines the fight. Renown'd Clephanio I constrain'd to yield, And drove the haughty vet'ran from the field. Weak is thine arm, rash youth ! thy courage vain ; Vanquish'd, with shame you'll curse the fatal plain. The half-struck balls your weak endeavours mock, Slowly proceed, and soon forget the stroke. Not so the orb eludes my thund'ring force, Thro' fields of air it holds its rapid course ; Swift as the balls from martial engines driv'n, Streams like a comet thro' the arch of heav'n. Vaunter, go on ! (Pygmalion thus replies) ; Thine empty boasts with justice I despise ! Hadst thou the strength Goliah's spear to wield. Like its great master thunder on the field, And with that strength Cnllodofs matchless art, Not one unmanly thought should daunt my heart. He said : and sign'd to fnis. who before With frequent warnings fill'd the sounding shore. THE GOFF. ii Then great Castalio his whole strength collects, And on the orb a noble blow directs ; Swift as a thought the ball obedient flies, Sings high in air, and seems to cleave the skies ; Then on the level plain its fury spends ; And Irus to the chief the welcome tidings sends. Next in his turn Pygmalion strikes the globe ; On the upper half descends the erring club ; Along the green the ball confounded scours ; No lofty flight the ill-sped stroke impow'rs. Thus, when the trembling hare descries the hounds, She from her whinny mansion swiftly bounds ; O'er hills and fields she scours, outstrips the wind ; The hounds and huntsmen follow far behind. Gambolia now afforded timely aid, She o'er the sand the fainting ball convey'd ; Renew'd its force, and urg'd it on its way, Till on the summit of the hill it lay. Now all on fire the chiefs their orbs pursue, With the next stroke the orbs their flight renew ; Thrice round the green they urge the whizzing ball, And thrice three holes to great Castalio fall : THE GOFF. The other six Pygmalion bore away, And saved a while the honours of the day. Had some brave champion of the sandy field The chiefs attended, and the game beheld, With ev'rv stroke his wonder had increas'd, And em'lous fires had kindled in his breast. END OF CANTO II. CANTO III. HARMONIOUS Nine, that from Parnassus view The subject world, and all that's done below ; Who from oblivion snatch the patriot's name, And to the stars extol the hero's fame ; Bring each your lyre, and to my song repair, Nor think Golfinids train below the Muses' care. Declining Sol with milder beams invades The Scotian fields, and lengthens out the shades ; Hastes to survey the conquer'd golden plains, Where captive Indians mourn in Spanish chains, To gild the waves where hapless Hosier dy'd, Where Vernon late proud Bourbon's force defied, Triumphant rode along the wat'ry plain, Britannia's glory and the scourge of Spain. Still from her seat the Power of GOFF beheld Th' unwearied heroes toiling on the field : 14 THE GOFF. The light-foot fairies in their labours share, Each nymph her hero seconds in the war ; PYGMALION and Gambolia there appear, And VERDURILLA with Castalio here. The Goddess saw, and op'd the book of Fate, To search the issue of the grand debate. Bright silver plates the sacred leaves enfold, Bound with twelve shining clasps of solid gold. The wond'rous book contains the fate of all That lift the club, and strike the missive ball ; Mysterious rhymes, that thro' the pages flow, The past, the present, and the future show. GOLFINIA reads the fate-foretelling lines, And soon the sequel of the war divines ; Sees conquest doom'd Castalids toils to crown, Pygmalion doom'd superior might to own. Then at her side VICTORIA straight appears, Her sister goddess, arbitress of wars ; Upon her head a wreath of bays she wore, And in her hand a laurel sceptre bore ; Anxious to know the will of Fate, she stands, And waits obsequious on the Queen's commands. THE GOFF. 15 To whom GOLFINIA : Fate-fulfilling maid, Hear the Fates' will, and be their will obey'd : Straight to the field of fight thyself convey, Where brave Castalio and Pygmalion stray ; There bid the long-protracted combat cease, And with thy bays Castalids temples grace. She said ; and swift, as Hermes from above Shoots to perform the high behests offove, VICTORIA from her sister's presence flies, Pleased to bestow the long-disputed prize. Meanwhile the chiefs for the last hole contend, The last great hole, which should their labours end ; For this the chiefs exert their skill and might, To drive the balls, and to direct their flight. Thus two fleet coursers for the Royal plate (The others distanc'd) run the final heat ; With all his might each gen'rous racer flies, And all his art each panting rider tries, While show'rs of gold and praises warm his breast, And gen'rous emulation fires the beast. His trusty club Pygmalion dauntless plies : The ball ambitious climbs the lofty skies ; 1 6 777^ GOFF. But soon, ah ! soon, descends upon the field, The adverse winds the lab'ring orb repell'd. Thus when a fowl, whom wand'ring sportsmen scare, Leaves the sown land, and mounts the fields of air, Short is his flight ; the fiery Furies wound, And bring him tumbling headlong to the ground. Not so Castalio lifts th' unerring club, But with superior art attacks the globe ; The well-struck ball the stormy wind beguil'd, And like a swallow skimm'd along the field. An harmless sheep, by Fate decreed to fall, Feels the dire fury of the rapid ball ; Full on her front the raging bullet flew, And sudden anguish seiz'd the silent ewe ; Stagg'ring, she falls upon the verdant plain, Convulsive pangs distract her wounded brain. Great PAN beheld her stretch'd upon the grass, Nor unreveng'd permits the crime to pass : Th' Arcadian God, with grief and fury stung, Snatch'd his stout crook, and fierce to vengeance sprung ; His faithful dogs their master's steps pursue ; The fleecy flocks before their father bow, THE GOFF. 17 With bleatings hoarse salute him as he strode ; And frisking lambkins dance around the God. The sire of sheep then lifted from the ground The panting dam, and piss'd upon the wound : The stream divine soon eas'd the mother's pain ; The wise immortals never piss in vain. Then to the ball his horny foot applies, Before his foot the kick'd offender flies. The hapless orb a gaping face detain'd ; Deep sunk in sand the hapless orb remain'd. As VERDURILLA mark'd the ball's arrest, She with resentment fired Castalids breast. The nymph assum'd Patricks shape and mien, Like great Patrico stalk'd along the green ; So well his manner and his accent feign'd, Castalio deemed Patrice's self complain'd. Ah, sad disgrace ! see rustic herds invade GOLFINIAN plains, the angry fairy said : Your ball abus'd, your hopes and projects cross'd, The game endanger'd, and the hole nigh lost. Thus brutal PAN resents his wounded ewe, Tho' chance, not you, did guide the fatal blow. 1 8 THE GOFF. Incens'd Castalio makes her no replies, T" attack the God, the furious mortaj flies ; His iron-headed club around he swings, m And fierce at PAN the pond'rous weapon flings. Affrighted PAN the dreadful missive shunn'd, But blameless Tray receiv'd a deadly wound : Ill-fated Tray no more the flocks shall tend. In anguish doorn'd his shorten'd life to end. Nor could great PAN afford a timely aid ; Great PAN himself before the hero fled : Even he a God a mortal's fury dreads, And far and fast from bold Castalio speeds. To free the ball the chief now turns his mind, Flies to the bank where lay the orb confined ; The pond'rous club upon the ball descends, Involv'd in dust th' exulting orb ascends. Their loud applause the pleas'd spectators raise ; The hollow bank resounds Castalio' s praise. A mighty blow Pygmalion then lets fall, Straight from th' impulsive engine starts the ball, Answ'ring its master's just design, it hastes, And from the hole scarce twice two clubs' length rests. THE GOFF. iy Ah ! what avails thy skill, since fate decrees Thy conqu'ring foe to bear away the prize 1 Full fifteen clubs' length from the hole he lay A wide cart-road before him cross'd his way ; The deep-cut tracks th' intrepid chief defies ; High o'er the road the ball triumphing flies, Lights on the green, and scours into the hole ; Down with it sinks depress'd Pygmaliorfs soul. Seiz'd with surprise, th' affrighted hero stands, And feebly tips the ball with trembling hands. The creeping ball its want of force complains, A grassy tuft the loit'ring orb detains. Surrounding crowds the victor's praise proclaim, The echoing shore resounds Castalids name. For him Pygmalion must the bowl prepare. To him must yield the honours of the war ; On fame's triumphant wings his name shall soar Till time shall end, or GOFFING be no more. ADDRESS TO ST. ANDREWS. ST. ANDREWS ! they say that thy glories are gone, That thy streets are deserted, thy castles o'erthrown : If thy glories be gone, they are only, methinks, As it were, by enchantment, transferr'd to thy Links. Though thy streets be not now, as of yore, full of prelates, Of abbots and monks, and of hot-headed zealots, Let none judge us rashly, or blame us as scoffers, When we say that instead there are Links full of Goffers, With more of good heart and good feeling among them Than the abbots, the monks, or the zealots who sung them We have red coats and bonnets, we've putters and clubs ; The green has its bunkers, its hazards, and rubs ; At the long hole across we have biscuits and beer, And the Hebes who sell it give /est to the cheer : If this make not up for the pomp and the splendour Of mitres, and murders, and mass we'll surrender; ADDRESS TO ST. ANDREWS. 2 If Goffers and caddies be not better neighbours Than abbots and soldiers, with crosses and sabres, Let such fancies remain with the fool who so thinks, While we toast old St. Andrews, its Goffers and Links. THE GOLFIAD. Anna, virumq. cano, VIRGIL, sEn. i. 1. I. 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 ^Eneas 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 THE GOLF! AD. 2.? 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 oft" ! 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 : * Hell is a range of broken ground on St. Andrews Links, bearing probably the same proportion to the ordinary course of the Links as hell would to heaven in the opinion of these immortals. 24 THE GOLF I AD. 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 nre close upon tlicc. on the green ; THE GOLF I AD. 25 And tho' when seen, save Golfers, few can pri/e. 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." * A place on North Berwick Links, so awkward, that in playing out of it one is allowed to remove everything, provided the position of the ball is not altered. t A long and scientific stroke at golf. 26 THE GOLFIAD. 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 sic/i." f 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, * .S'Av//, tin' act of holing the ball contrary to prohaliility. t A siting trrm for sin It. THE GOLF/AJ). 27 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.'' ' Fifth hole. 28 THE GOLF/AD, His partner muttered something not so civil, Particularly, " scoundrels" "at the devil ! : ' Now Baird and Clan in turn strike oft" 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 ! * Sixth bole. THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS ON A CROWDED DAY. Forsan ct JKEC oliin meminisse juvabit. /Ex. i. 1. 208. '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 ! 30 THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS. 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 Darid 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 1 ?" 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, THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS. 31 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 \hefancy 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 ; * Meaning plenty of balls, made by Mr. Gourlay of Brimtsfiehl Links, a famous artist. The gentleman alluded to generally has, at /cast, twelve dozen. 32 THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS. 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 /////. THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. . 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 vt\ 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 ye/, 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 nen>ous that's a bad affair ; It sadly spoils his putting, when he's press 1 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 .' F 34 THE FIRST HOLE AT ST. ANDREWS. 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 amon< 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 Jvz/V/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 (hey had such a man to represent them : THE FIRST HOLP: AT ST. ANDREWS. 35 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 ! ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. Alter erit turn Typhys, d a I (era qua; vehat Argo Dilectos heroas erunt etiam altera lic'lla. VIRG. GEORGIC. AWAKE, my slumb'ring Muse, and plume thy wing, Our former theme the Game of Golf to sing ! For since the subject last inspired my pen, Ten years have glided by, or nearly ten. Still the old hands at Golf delight to play- Still new succeed them as they pass away ; Still ginger-beer and parliament are seen Serv'd out by Houris to the peopled green ; And still the royal game maintains its place, And will maintain it through each rising race. Still Major Playfair shines, a star at Golf; And still the Colonel- though a little off; ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. 37 The former, skill'd in many a curious art, As chemist, mechanist, can play his part, And understands, besides the pow'r of swiping, Electro- Talbot-axA Daguerreotyping. Still Colonel Holcroft steady walks the grass, And still his putting nothing can surpass And still he drives, unless the weather's rough, Not quite so far as once, but far enough. Still Saddell walks, superb, improved in play, Though his blue jacket now is tuni'd to grey ; Still are his balls as rife and clean as wont Still swears by Ammon, and still bets the blunt Still plays all matches still is often beat And still in iced punch drowns each fresh defeat. Still on the green Clanranald's chief appears, As gay as ever, as untouch'd by years ; He laughs at Time, and Time, perhaps through whim, Respects his nonchalance, and laughs at him ; Just fans him with his wings, but spares his head, As loth to lose a subject so well bred. 38 ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. Sir Ralph returns he has been absent long- No less renown'd in Golfing than in song ; With continental learning richly stored, Teutonic Bards translated and explored ; A literaire a German scholar now, With all Griseldds honours on his brow ! The Links have still the pleasure to behold Messieux, complete in matches, as of old ; He, modest, tells you that his day's gone by : If any think it is so let them try ! Still portly William Wood is to be seen, As good as ever on the velvet green, The same unfailing trump ; but John, methinks, Has taken to the Turf, and shies the Links. Whether the Leger and the Derby pay As well as Hope Grant, I can scarcely say ; But let that be 'tis better, John, old fellow, To pluck the rooks, than rook the violoncello. Permit me just a moment to digress Friendship would chide me should I venture less- ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. 39 The poor Chinese, there cannot be a doubt, Will shortly be demolish'd out and out ; But O how blest beyond the common line Of conquer'd nations by the Power divine ! Saltoun to cut their yellow throats, and then Hope Grant to play their requiem-notes Amen ! Still George Moncrieffe appears the crowd before, Lieutenant- Colonel Captain now no more ; Improv'd in ev'rything in looks and life, And, more than all, the husband of a wife ! As in the olden time, see Craigie Halkett Wild strokes and swiping, jest, and fun, and rackett ; He leaves us now. But in three years, I trust, He will return, and sport his muzzle dust, Play Golf again, and patronise all cheer, From noble Claret down to bitter beer. Mount-Melville still erect as ever stands, And plies his club with energetic hands, Plays short and steady, often is a winner A better Captain never graced a dinner. 40 ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. But where is Oliphant, that artist grand ? He scarce appears among the Golfing band. No doubt he's married ; but when that befalls Is there an end to putters, clubs, and balls 1 Not so, methinks : Sir David Baird can play With any Golfer of the present day ; The Laird of Lingo, Major Bob Anstruther Both married, and the one as good's the other. Dalgleish and Haig, two better men to play You scarce will meet upon a summer's day ; Alike correct, whatever may befall, Swipe, iron, putter, quarter-stroke, and all. Old Robert Lindsay plays a decent game, Tho' not a Golfer of enormous fame. Well can he fish with minnow as with fly, Paint, and play farthing-brag uncommonly ; Give jolly dinners, justice courts attend A good companion and a steady friend. But Cuttlchill, that wonderful buffoon, We meet him now no more, as wont, at noon ; ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. .\\ No more along the green his jokes are heard, And some who dared not then, now take the word. Farewell ! facetious Jem too surely gone A loss to us Joe Miller to Boulogne. Poor Peter Glass, a worthy soul and blue, Has paid the debt of nature 'tis too true ! Long did his candle flicker with the gout One puff, a little stronger, blew it out. And good Patullo ! he who drove as none, Since him, have driven he is also gone ! And Captain Cheape who does not mourn the day That snatch'd so good, so kind a friend away ? One more I name and only one but he Was older far, and lower in degree Great Davie Robertson, the eldest cad, In whom the good was stronger than the bad ; He sleeps in death ! and with him sleeps a skill Which Davie, statesmanlike, could wield at will ! Sound be his slumbers ! yet if he should wake In worlds where Golf is play'd, himself he'd shake, And look about, and tell each young beginner, u 42 ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. " I'll gie half-ane nac mair, as I'm a sinner." He leaves a son, and Allan is his name, In Golfing far beyond his father's fame ; Tho' in diplomacy, I shrewdly guess, His skill's inferior, and his fame is less. Now for the mushrooms old, perchance, or new But whom my former strain did not review : I'll name an old one, Fatten, Tom, of Perth, Short, stout, grey-headed, but of sterling worth ! A Golfer perfect something, it may be, The worse for wear, but few so true as he ; Good-humour'd when behind as when ahead. And drinks like blazes till he goes to bed. His friend is Peddie, not an awful swiper, But at the putting he ; s a very riper : Give him a man to drive him through the green, And he'll be bad to beat, it will be seen Patton and Peddie Peddie and Patton, Are just the people one should bet upon. There Keith with Andrew Wauchope works aw;iy, And most respectable the game they play ; ANOTHER PEET A T THE /./A'A'.s. 4 The navy Captain's steadiness ami age Give him, perhaps, the pull but I'll engage, Ere some few months, or rather weeks, are fled, Youth and activity will take the lead. See Gilmour next and he can drive a ball As far as any man among them all ; In ev'ry hunting-field can lead the van, And is throughout a perfect gentleman. Next conies a handsome man, with Roman nose And whiskers dark Wolfe Murray I suppose ; He has begun but lately, still he plays A fairish game, and therefore merits praise ; Ask him when at his worst, and he will say, ' 'Tis bad but, Lord ! how I play'd yesterday /'' Another man with whiskers stout and strong A Golfer too who swipes his balls along, And well he putts, but I should simply say, His own opinion's better than his play ; Dundas can sing a song, or glee, or catch, '1 think far better than he makes a match. 44 ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. But who is he whose hairy lips betray Hussar or Lancer 1 ? Muse, oh kindly say ! Tis Captain Feilden. Lord, how hard he hits ! 'Tis strange he does not knock the ball to bits ! Sometimes he hits it fair, and makes a stroke Whose distance Sadd ell's envy might provoke ; But take his common play ; the worst that ever Play'd Golf might give him one, and beat him clever. Bad tho' he be, the Captain has done more Than ever man who play'd at Golf before : One thund'ring ball he drove 'twas in despair- Wide of the hole, indeed, but kill'd a hare ! Ah ! Captain Campbell, old Schehallion, see ! Most have play'd longer, few so well as he ; A sterling Highlander, and that's no trifle, So thinks the Gad a workman with a rifle ; Keeps open house a very proper thing And, tho' rheumatic, fiddles like a king ! Sir Thomas of Moncrieffe 1 cannot doubt But lie will be a Golfer out-and-out ; ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. 45 Tho' now, perhaps, he's off, and careless too His misses numerous, his hits are few ; But he is zealous ; and the time will be When few will better play the game than he. Balbirnie and Makgill will both be good Strong, active, lathy fellows ; so they should. But for John Grant, a clever fellow too, I really fear that Golf will never do. Tis strange, indeed ; for he can paint, and ride, And hunt the hounds, and many a thing beside ; Amuse his friends with anecdote and fun ; But when he takes his club in hand he's done ! Stay ! I retract ! Since writing the above, I've seen him play a better game, by Jove ; So much beyond what one could have believ'd, That I confess myself for once deceived ; And if he can go on the season through, There's still a chance that he may really do. I've kept a man, in petto, for the last Not an old Golfer, but by few surpassed 46 ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. Great Captain Fairlie ! When he drives a ball One of his best for he don't hit them all, It then requires no common stretch of sight To watch its progress, and to see it light. One moment : I've another to define A famous sportsman, and a judge of wine Whom faithful Mem'ry offers to my view ; He made the game a study, it is true ; Still, many play as well but, for position John Buckle fairly beggars competition ! And now farewell ! I am the worse for wear- Grey is my jacket, growing grey my hair ! And though my play is pretty much the same, Mine is, at best, a despicable game. But still I like it still delight to sing Clubs, players, caddies, balls, and everything. But all that's bright must fade, and we who play, Like those before us, soon must pass away ; Yet it requires no prophet's skill to trace The royal game thro' each succeeding race : ANOTHER PEEP AT THE LINKS. 47 While on the tide of generations flows, It still shall bloom, a never-fading rose ; And still St. Andrews Links, with flags unfurl'd, Shall peerless reign, and challenge all the world ! THE NINE HOLES OF THE LINKS OF ST. ANDREWS. IN A SERIES OF SONNETS. T. 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 oft" 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, THE NINE HOLES OF ST. ANDREWS. 49 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. R. C II. THE SECOND OR CARTGATE HOLE. FEARFUL to Tyro is thy primal stroke, O Cartgate ! for behold the bunker opes Right to the kci/tg-pla.ce its yawning chops, Hope to engulf ere it is well awoke. That passed, a Scylla in the form of rushes Nods to Charybdis which in ruts appears : He will be safe who in the middle steers ; One step aside, the ball destruction brushes. Golf symbols thus again our painful life, Dangers in front, and pitfalls on each hand : But see, one glorious cleek-stroke from the sand Sends Tyro home, and saves all further strife ! He's in at six old Sandy views the lad With new respect, remarking : " That's no bad !" R. C. H 50 THE NINE HOLES OF THE III. THE THIRD HOLE. No rest in Golf still perils in the path : Here, playing a good ball, perhaps it goes Gently into the Prinripalian Nose, Or else Tarns Coo, which equally is death. Perhaps the wind will catch it in mid-air, And take it to the Whins " Look out, look out Tom Morris, be, oh be, a faithful scout !" But Tom, though links-eyed, finds not anywhere. Such thy mishaps, O Merit : feeble balls Meanwhile roll on, and lie upon the green ; 'Tis well, my friends, if you, when this befalls, Can spare yourselves the infamy of spleen. Tt only shows the ancient proverb's force, That you may further go and fare the worse. R. C. IV. THE FOURTH OR GINGER-BEER HOLE. THOUGH thou hast lost this last unlucky hole, I say again, betake thee not to swearing, Or any form of speech profanely daring, Though some allege it lemleth to console. LINK'S OF ST. ANDREWS. 51 Better do thou thy swelling griefs control, Sagacious that at hand a joy awaits thee (Since out of doubt a glass of beer elates thee), Without that frightful peril to thy soul. A glass of beer ! go dip thine angry beak in it, And straight its rage will melt to soft placidity, That solace finding thou art wise to seek in it ; Ah, do not thou on this poor plea reject it. That in thy inwards it will breed acidity One glass of Stewart's brandy will correct it. P. A. V. 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. 52 THE NINE HOLES OF THE And for mere mortal patience is but scanty Shriekings thereafter, as of souls in pain, Dire gnash ings of the teeth, and horrid curses, With which I need not decorate my verses, Because, in fact, you'll find them all in Dante. P. A. VI. THE HEATHER HOLE. AH me ! prodigious woes do still environ To quote verbatim from some grave old poet The man who needs must meddle with his iron ; And here, if ever, thou art doomed to know it. For now behold thee, doubtless for thy sins, Tilling some bunker, as if on a lease of it, And so assiduous to make due increase of it ; Or wandering homeless through a world of whins ! And when, these perils past, thou seemest dead, And hop'st a half O woe, the ball goes crooked. Making thy foe just one more hole ahead, Surely a consummation all too sad, Without that sneering devilish " Never lookit," The parting comment of the opposing cud. I'. A. LINKS OF ST. ANDREWS. 53 VII. THE HIGH OR EDEN HOLE. THE shelly pit is cleared at one fell blow, A stroke to be remembered in your dreams ! But here the Eden on your vision gleams, Lovely, but treach'rous in its solemn flow. The hole is perched aloft, too near the tide, The green is small, and broken is the ground Which doth that little charmed space surround ! Go not too far, and go not to a side ; Take the short spoon to do your second stroke ; Sandy entreats you will the wind take heed on, For, oh, it would a very saint provoke, If you should let your ball plump in the Eden. You do your best, but who can fate control ? So here against you is another hole. R. C. Jr. VIII. THE SHORT HOLE. BRIEF but not easy is the next adventure ; Legend avers it has been done in one, Though such long s teals are now but rarely done- In three 'twere well that you the hole should enter. 54 THE NINE HOLES OF THE Strangely original is this bit of ground, For, while at hand the smooth and smiling green, One bunker wide and bushy yawns between, Where Tyro's gutta is too often found. Nervous your rival strikes and heels his ball From that whin-bush at six he'll scarce extract it Yours, by no blunder this time counteracted, Is with the grass-club lofted over all. There goes a hole in your side how you hug it ! Much as th' Australian digger does a nugget. R. C. Jr. IX. THE END HOLE. THE end, but not the end the distance-post That halves the game a serious point to thee, For if one more thou losest, 'twill be three : Yet even in that case, think not all is lost. Men four behind have been, on the return, So favoured by Olympus, or by care, That all their terrors vanished into air, And caddies cried them dor in y at the burn ! LINKS OF ST. ANDKEWS. 55 I could quote proverbs, did I speak at random : Full many a broken ship comes into port, Full many a cause is gained at last resort, But Golf impresses most, Nil despcrandum. Turn, then, my son, with two against, nor dread To gain the winning-post with one ahead. R. C. Jr. The following SCRAP relative to GOI.K occurs in a very rare work entitled Westminster Drollery, 121110, 1671, p. 28. A Song called " And to each pretty lass We will give a green gown." THUS all our life long we are frolick and gay, And instead of Court revels we merrily play At Trap, at Rules, and at Barry-break run, At GOFI-- and at Foot-Ball ; and when we have done These innocent sports, we'll laugh and lie down, And to each pretty lass We will give a green gown. (> l>c aiut.' Let it guide us in (lolf, whether " 1'tirgess " >r " Star :" At the last round let none look demure : All Golfers are brothers when driving is far. When putting is canny and sun: 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 !" GAK bring my guid auld clubs anre mair Come, laddie, bring them fast, For I maun hae anither game, Ivor the autumn season's past : And trow ye as I play, my lads, My song shall ever be, Auld Scotland's royal game o' Gouf- Our country's game for me." Then here's a toast to Goufin' yet. \\"i' a' the honours three. Throw by that walloping surtotit - On wi' my auld red jacket Haul aff thae gripless Wellingtons For yon shoon \vi' mony a tarket. Hang up that snoring Albert hat Yon foraging-cap for me : And now a Golfer I walk forth, Frae worldly care set free. Then here's a toast, etc. Now, laddie, pouch thae Gourlay ba's, Wi' joy they'll dance a reel My play-club capers in my hand, As supple as an eel. And see ! my partner's on the green. His ba' upon the tee Impatient, round he swings his club. Making heads o' gowans flee. Then here's a toast, etc. How sweet's the air upon the links That stretch along the sea ! Where, bending down white clover head In silence sips the bee. Our steps how light ! as on we speed O'er bouvant knowes o' balm, 70 .V(AY<7. To where our balls in distance lie. Like mushrooms on the lawn. Then here's a toast, etc. And 'tween each stroke how socially Abreast in crack we go, And shape o' club and mak o' ba' Discuss wi' sportsman's glow. Then hale-lung'd laughter peals aloud. And banter stingless flies. And tears o' mirth astonished run From sad dyspeptics' eyes. Then here's a toast, etc. And when some rounds demand a rest, And appetite is keen, How sweet to taste the Golfer's fare, Reclining on the green ! Ne'er aldermen at turtle feast Washed over with champagne, Rejoiced like us. as baps we tear, And jugs o' " Berwick's" drain. Then here's a toast, etc. SOJVG. Our caddies at our feet reclined, Their sheaves o' clubs at rest Happy to hear the (Jolfers' lore. Chew on \vi' silent zest. But up, like giants Hushed with wine. Again our clubs we wield We feel new vigour in our arms, And ardent take the field. Then here's a toast, etc. Thus on we've toiled at Dubbieside, 1 5ut 'neath the Lomond hill The sun has sunk, and the whirling din Has ceased at Kirkland Mill. The sand-eel crowd is thickening black By the mouth o' Leven stream. And the wearied Tar in Largo Bay Lets off the roaring steam. So here's a toast, etc. So here's a health to our ain club, St. Andrews next, our nnthei' 72 SONG. A bumper to Dunbarnie next, Our neibour and our brither : Auld Dubbieside salutes ye a' ; And if you wish to meet her, You'll find her ready at a ca', Wi' her gallant captain PETER. So here's a toast, etc- A GOI.FIXG SONG. llY MR. J \M!-> IJ AII.AN I INK. TI.NK -Let Handily Gain'. COME, leave your dingy desks and shops. Ye sons of ancient Reekie, And by green fields and sunny slopes, For healthy pastime seek ye. Don't bounce about your "ut learn our motto, " Sure and l\ir," Then come and play at Golf, boys. CJiorus Three rounds of l>runtsfield Links will chase All murky vapours off. boys ; And nothing can your sinews brace Like the glorious Li;anie of Golf. bovs. 74 GOLFING SONG. Above our head the clear blue sky, We bound the gowan'd sward o'er, And as our balls fly far and high, Our bosoms glow with ardour : While dear Edina, Scotland's Queen. Her misty cap lifts off. boys. And smiles serenely on the green, Graced by the game of (lolf. boys. Chorus Three rounds, etc. We putt, we drive, we laugh, we chat. Our strokes and jokes aye clinking. We banish all extraneous fat. And all extraneous thinking. U'e'll cure you of a summer cold, Or of a winter cough, boys, U'e'll make you young, even when you're old So come and play at (lolf. hoys. C//i