From an Old Scrap Book.
WHEN MACLAREN FOOZLED OUT.
The links were bright and bonny wi' the tartan and the plaid
When the pride o' Skibo village met the best St. Andrews had;
The play was fast and furious, and sair the ball was thwacked,
And in the final test o' skill one point Maclaren lacked.
The caddies stood wi' bated breath, and every face was set,
For not a man was in the crowd but had his siller bet;
And one lad cried, as wi' his stick Maclaren loomed up tall:
"Hoot, mon! now show 'em hoo Old Skibo kills the ball!"
The gowlfer lookit at the sky, and then doon at the dirt,
And cannily he weighed his stock and loosed his plaided shirt;
He slowly planted both his feet, and then replanted each,
And dinna doot he swung his arms as high as he could reach.
Grim death at just that moment would have been Maclaren's wish,
For the atmosphere resounded to that mighty empty swish;
His stick flew like a rocket, but, alas! the wo decreed!
The ball rolled two feet sickly, when it just lay doon and deed.
Oh, somewhere in our bonny land the pipes skirl all the day,
And somewhere lads and lassies shout, and men are passing gay;
But we are dour in Skibo, and no joy is hereabout,
Since the day when, like one Casey, our Maclaren foozled out.
Denver Republican.
THE LOST GRIP.
It was a joy to be alive,
When I could always see
My golf-ball, from a slashing drive,
Go soaring off the tee;
When, as my lowered handicap
Fell ever nearer scratch,
I held my own with any chap
In medal play and match.