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—
A bumper to Dunbarnie next,
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.
A GOLFING SONG.
By Mr. James Ballantine.
Tune—Let Haughty Gaul.
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.