  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 zest to the cheer: If this make not up for the pomp and the splendour Of mitres, and murders, and mass—we'll surrender; 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. |
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