  By Mr. James Ballantine. 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 "dogs of war," Nor at our shinties scoff, boys, But learn our motto, "Sure and Far," Then come and play at Golf, boys. Chorus—Three rounds of Bruntsfield Links will chase All murky vapours off, boys; And nothing can your sinews brace Like the glorious game of Golf, boys. 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 Golf, 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. We'll cure you of a summer cold, Or of a winter cough, boys, We'll make you young, even when you're old, So come and play at Golf, boys. Chorus—Three rounds, etc. When in the dumps with mulligrubs, Or doyte with barley-bree, boys, 'Twill set you on the "Tee," boys. There's no disease we cannot cure, No care we cannot doff, boys; Our aim is ever "Far and Sure"— So come and play at Golf, boys. Chorus—Three rounds, etc. O blessings on pure cauler air, And every healthy sport, boys, That makes sweet Nature seem more fair, And makes long life seem short, boys; That warms your hearts with genial glow, And makes you halve your loaf, boys, With every needy child of woe— So bless the game of Golf, boys. Chorus—Three rounds, etc. Then don your brilliant scarlet coats, With your bright blue velvet caps, boys. And some shall play the rocket shots And some the putting paps, boys. Shall e'er become an oaf, boys, Who gathers friendship, health, and joy, In playing at the Golf, boys. Chorus—Three rounds, etc. |
|
