And though the Golfer's sport be keen,
Yet oft upon the putting-green
He'll rest to gaze upon the scene
That lies round Innerleven—
To trace the steamboat's crumpled way
Through Largo's loch-like silvery bay,
Or to hear the hushing breakers play
On the beach o' Innerleven.
When in the evening of my days,
I wish I could a cottage raise
Beneath the snugly-sheltering braes
O'erhanging Innerleven.
There in the plot before the door
I'd raise my vegetable store,
Or tug for supper at the oar
In the bay near Innerleven.
But daily on thy matchless ground
I and my caddie would be found,
Describing still another round
On thy Links, sweet Innerleven!
Would I care then for fortune's rubs,
And a' their Kirk and State hubbubs,
While I could stump and swing my clubs
On the Links o' Innerleven?
And when the e'ening grey sat doun,
I'd cast aside my tacket[11] shoon,
And crack o' putter, cleek, and spoon,[12]
Wi' a friend at Innerleven.
Syne o'er a glass o' Cameron Brig,[13]
A nightcap we would doucely swig,
Laughing at Conservative and Whig,
By the Links o' Innerleven.
[11] Golfers wear tacks in their shoes that they may stand firm when they strike.
[12] Names for different kinds of clubs.
[13] The name of a noted distillery.
