A Golfing Idyll [Illustrated] The Skipper's Round with the Deil On the Links of St. Andrews

A GOLFING IDYLLNow Skipper frien', come tell me trueWhat garred ye mount the ribbon blue?Gude sake! to think the like o' youShould e'er hae joined the Templar crew!How you accomplished your conversionIt bangs poor me past comprehension.No six months gane, a drucken deevil,You led the ball in waste and revel;Were staggerin' on destruction's brink,Selling your very duds for drink.Now, there you sit, you grim auld sinner,And tell's the smell o't mak's you scunner,As mim as howdie at a christening,Or tinker to a sermon listening;Weel washed, weel clad, your blue beard shavedLike Dr Byd's, and weel behavedAs toun-kirk elder 'fore the session—Speak out, auld man, and mak' confession.The speaker was ane Jock Pitbladdie,A golfer good, and decent caddie,[Pg 2]Who, drunk or sober, in 's vocationHad aye the grace o' moderation.A souter to his trade, he'd left the tounSax months before to work in Troon,To carry clubs or mend auld shoon,At ilka t' ade a handy loon.Skipper and Jock were cronies thrang,Had kent and liked each other lang;Mony a gill they'd drunk thegither,And friendly treated ane anither.Jockie was like a bed of sand,The more he drank, the more he'd stand;But Skipper, wud, and wilder grew,And never stopped till roarin' fou.What wonder, then, at Jock's surpriseTo find his frien' in sic-like guise,Or Jock's ill-mannered exclamationAnd rough demand for explanation......