For the fat young August pheasants that'll never live to rocket);

Here's a jolly Song o' Golf Balls; here's the tune of Cubs that Run;

We've something for each Jack o' you, for every mother's son.

Good gentlemen, good gentlemen, we crave your kind permission!

Here's Summer, at your service, and she'd sing you on your ways

The marching songs of morning and the Road that fits the Vision,

The mellow songs of twilight and the gold September haze;

God rest you all, good gentlemen, and send you pleasant days.