  Tune—Scotland yet. Gae bring my guid auld clubs ance mair— Come, laddie, bring them fast, For I maun hae anither game, E'er 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, Wi' a' the honours three. Throw by that walloping surtout— On wi' my auld red jacket— Haul aff thae gripless Wellingtons For yon shoon wi' mony a tacket. 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 heads. In silence sips the bee. Our steps how light! as on we speed O'er bouyant knowes o' balm, 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. Our caddies at our feet reclined, Their sheaves o' clubs at rest— Happy to hear the Golfers' lore, Chew on wi' silent zest. But up, like giants flushed 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, But '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 mither— 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. |
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