,
Lang, lang before I was a caddie,
When golfin' daft a fisher laddie.
Wi' keen delight I still remember
The glorious gatherin's o' September,
When eager golfers came to seek,
And share the joys o' 'Medal Week.'
They mustered strong, a manly band.
The wale o' gentry o' the land;
Among them golfers known to fame,
Old hands, scratch players o' the game,
The Woods, Sir Hope, the gallant Grant;
That swiper grand, R. Oliphant;
Pattullo, Stirling, Messieux, Condie,
Holcroft, Playfair, Haig, and Fairlie;
Sir David Baird, Sir Ralph Anstruther,
All players stout, and many another;
Forby of course, a wheen o' duffers,
Second fiddles, middlin' golfers,
Most worthy men, but poor performers,
Like Mr Patton, Puddle Mudie,
Or cheery Small, the laird o' Foodie;
The rattlin' red-nosed Craigie Halket;
Flash Jim, the swell, for slang and racket;
Clanranald, spruce, the tartan dandy,
And, 'dem it,' sweet as sugar candy;
Mount Melville's laird, aye debonair,
True gentleman beyond compare;
Dundas, Gillespie, Wemyss, and Craigie,
Pitarro's bard, the wag Carnegie,
And stalwart Saddle, big and burly,
Tho' grim his look, he ne'er was surly,
'Twas he that swore or e'en pretended
That nature's laws were clean suspended
(Save us, mortals, sic a shame!)
To 'spite and spoil _his_ little game!!'
Of handsome men a grand display,
As rarely seen on Summer's day.
Kilgraston's sons, Sir Frank the chief,
Falkland, Charlton, and Moncrieff;
And mony mair o' birth and name
That came to view the Royal game.
Blythe Allan then was in his prime,
The finest player o' his time.
Tom Morris, too, a lad of twenty,
Ere long renowned for honours plenty,
Good player still, an honest man,
As ever lifted club in han',
Long may he live the green to guard,
And at his pleasure sand the sward,
And when at last 'neath sod he's landed,
Wi' blessings may his grave be sanded.
And ither lads, professionals o' mark,
Kirks, Straths, and Pirie, Herds, and Park;
Besides a lot I canna' mind,
All clever players o their kind.
But ne'er a one a club could handle,
Play sic a game, or haud the candle,
To that auld limb o' sin, the rip,
Who had me in his ugly grip.

Frae the 'Hole Across' in 'Hell' he landed,
That I foresaw it was intended.
As I gaed by I heard him laughin',
And with the little deils a-daffin'.
I fondly hoped he'd come to g