(Song of the Golf Enthusiast. After Thomas Moore)
Air—"Thee, thee, only thee."
The dawn of the morn, the daylight's sinking,
Shall find me on the Links, and thinking,
Of Tee, Tee, only Tee!
When rivals meet upon the ground,
The Putting-green's a realm enchanted,
Nay, in Society's giddy round
My soul, (like Tooting's thralls) is haunted
By Tee, Tee, only Tee!
For that at early morn I waken,