The dawn of 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,
And swiftly bolt my eggs and bacon,