Ofrural diversions, too long has the chaseAll the honours usurped, and assumed the chief place;But truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim,That Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen,And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green;From vig'rous exertions our pleasures arise,And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.O'er the green see our heroes in uniform clad,In parties well matched how they gracefully spread,Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal,And with putt well directed plump into the hole.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.From exercise keen, from strength active and bold,We traverse the green, and forget to grow old;Blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care,Are knock'd down by our balls as they whiz through the air.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.The strong-sinew'd son of Alcmena would drub,And demolish a monster when armed with a club;But what were the monsters which Hercules slew,To those fiends which each week with our balls we subdue?With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame,Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game:A sport so distinguished the fair must approve;So to Golf give the day and the evening to love.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.Our first standing toast we to Golfing assign,No other amusement so truly divine;It has charms for the aged, as well as the young,Then as first of field sports let its praises be sung.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.And to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill,A bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill;Our charming instructresses—blessings attend them,And cursed be the clown who would dare to offend them!With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.The next we shall drink to our friends far and near;To the mem'ry of those who no longer appear,Who have play'd their last round, and passed over that bourneFrom which the best Golfer can never return.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.Then fill up your glass, and let each social soulDrink to the putter, the balls, and the hole;And may every true Golfer invariably findHis opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
Ofrural diversions, too long has the chaseAll the honours usurped, and assumed the chief place;But truth bids the muse from henceforward proclaim,That Golfing of field sports stands foremost in fame.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
At Golf we contend without rancour or spleen,And bloodless the laurels we reap on the green;From vig'rous exertions our pleasures arise,And to crown our delight no poor fugitive dies.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
O'er the green see our heroes in uniform clad,In parties well matched how they gracefully spread,Whilst with long strokes, and short strokes, they tend to the goal,And with putt well directed plump into the hole.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
From exercise keen, from strength active and bold,We traverse the green, and forget to grow old;Blue devils, diseases, dull sorrow and care,Are knock'd down by our balls as they whiz through the air.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
The strong-sinew'd son of Alcmena would drub,And demolish a monster when armed with a club;But what were the monsters which Hercules slew,To those fiends which each week with our balls we subdue?With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
Health, happiness, harmony, friendship, and fame,Are the fruits and rewards of our favourite game:A sport so distinguished the fair must approve;So to Golf give the day and the evening to love.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
Our first standing toast we to Golfing assign,No other amusement so truly divine;It has charms for the aged, as well as the young,Then as first of field sports let its praises be sung.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
And to crown our devotion, and grateful goodwill,A bumper brimhigh to their healths let us fill;Our charming instructresses—blessings attend them,And cursed be the clown who would dare to offend them!With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
The next we shall drink to our friends far and near;To the mem'ry of those who no longer appear,Who have play'd their last round, and passed over that bourneFrom which the best Golfer can never return.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
Then fill up your glass, and let each social soulDrink to the putter, the balls, and the hole;And may every true Golfer invariably findHis opponent play fair, and his fair one prove kind.With a fal-the-ral-a, etc.
[10]From Mathieson's Poem "The Goff" 1743, with the exception of the 5th verse, which was copied by a member of the Burgess Club from a version of the song found on an old bookstall.
[10]From Mathieson's Poem "The Goff" 1743, with the exception of the 5th verse, which was copied by a member of the Burgess Club from a version of the song found on an old bookstall.
Sung at the Autumn Meeting of the Innerleven Golfing Club, 1841.
Tune—Dainty Davie.
Whawad be free from doctor's bills—From trash o' powders and o' pills—Will find a cure for a' his illsOn the Links o' Innerleven.For there whar lassies bleach their claes,And bairnies toddle doun the braes,The merry Golfer daily playsOn the Links o' Innerleven.Sae hie ye to the Golfer's ha',And there, arranged alang the wa',O' presses ye will see a raw,At the Club o' Innerleven.There from some friendly box ye'll drawA club and second-handed ba',—A Gourlay pill's the best o' a'For health at Innerleven.And though the Golfer's sport be keen,Yet oft upon the putting-greenHe'll rest to gaze upon the sceneThat lies round Innerleven—To trace the steamboat's crumpled wayThrough Largo's loch-like silvery bay,Or to hear the hushing breakers playOn the beach o' Innerleven.When in the evening of my days,I wish I could a cottage raiseBeneath the snugly-sheltering braesO'erhanging Innerleven.There in the plot before the doorI'd raise my vegetable store,Or tug for supper at the oarIn the bay near Innerleven.But daily on thy matchless groundI and my caddie would be found,Describing still another roundOn thy Links, sweet Innerleven!Would I care then for fortune's rubs,And a' their Kirk and State hubbubs,While I could stump and swing my clubsOn the Links o' Innerleven?And when the e'ening grey sat doun,I'd cast aside my tacket[11]shoon,And crack o' putter, cleek, and spoon,[12]Wi' a friend at Innerleven.Syne o'er a glass o' Cameron Brig,[13]A nightcap we would doucely swig,Laughing at Conservative and Whig,By the Links o' Innerleven.
Whawad be free from doctor's bills—From trash o' powders and o' pills—Will find a cure for a' his illsOn the Links o' Innerleven.For there whar lassies bleach their claes,And bairnies toddle doun the braes,The merry Golfer daily playsOn the Links o' Innerleven.
Sae hie ye to the Golfer's ha',And there, arranged alang the wa',O' presses ye will see a raw,At the Club o' Innerleven.There from some friendly box ye'll drawA club and second-handed ba',—A Gourlay pill's the best o' a'For health at Innerleven.
And though the Golfer's sport be keen,Yet oft upon the putting-greenHe'll rest to gaze upon the sceneThat lies round Innerleven—To trace the steamboat's crumpled wayThrough Largo's loch-like silvery bay,Or to hear the hushing breakers playOn the beach o' Innerleven.
When in the evening of my days,I wish I could a cottage raiseBeneath the snugly-sheltering braesO'erhanging Innerleven.There in the plot before the doorI'd raise my vegetable store,Or tug for supper at the oarIn the bay near Innerleven.
But daily on thy matchless groundI and my caddie would be found,Describing still another roundOn thy Links, sweet Innerleven!Would I care then for fortune's rubs,And a' their Kirk and State hubbubs,While I could stump and swing my clubsOn the Links o' Innerleven?
And when the e'ening grey sat doun,I'd cast aside my tacket[11]shoon,And crack o' putter, cleek, and spoon,[12]Wi' a friend at Innerleven.Syne o'er a glass o' Cameron Brig,[13]A nightcap we would doucely swig,Laughing at Conservative and Whig,By the Links o' Innerleven.
[11]Golfers wear tacks in their shoes that they may stand firm when they strike.
[11]Golfers wear tacks in their shoes that they may stand firm when they strike.
[12]Names for different kinds of clubs.
[12]Names for different kinds of clubs.
[13]The name of a noted distillery.
[13]The name of a noted distillery.
(1856.)Tune—Dainty Davie.
Ofa' the changes that of lateHave shaken Europe's social state—Let wondering politicians prate,And 'bout them mak a wark a'—A subject mair congenial here,And dearer to a Golfer's earI sing—the change brought round last yearBy balls ofGutta Percha!Tho' Gouf be of our games most rare,Yet truth to speak, the tear and wearO' balls was felt to be severe,And source o' great vexation;When Gourlay's balls cost half-a-croun,And Allan's no a farthing doun,The feck o's wad been harried soon,In this era of taxation.But times are changed—we dinna careThough we may ne'er drive leather mair,Be't stuffed wi' feather or wi' hair—For noo we're independent.At last a substance we hae got,Frae which for scarce mair than a groat,A ba' comes that can row and stot—A ba' the most transcendent.Hail,Gutta Percha, precious gum!O'er Scotland's links lang may ye bum;Some purse-proud billies haw and hum,And say ye're douf at fleein';But let them try ye fairly out,Wi' ony balls for days about,Your merits they will loudly tout,And own they hae been leein'.And noo that a' your praise is spent,Ye'll listen to a friend's comment,And kindlier tak on wi' paint,Then ye wad be perfection.And sure some scientific loon,On Golfing will bestow a boon,And gie ye a cosmetic soon,And brighten your complexion.
Ofa' the changes that of lateHave shaken Europe's social state—Let wondering politicians prate,And 'bout them mak a wark a'—A subject mair congenial here,And dearer to a Golfer's earI sing—the change brought round last yearBy balls ofGutta Percha!
Tho' Gouf be of our games most rare,Yet truth to speak, the tear and wearO' balls was felt to be severe,And source o' great vexation;When Gourlay's balls cost half-a-croun,And Allan's no a farthing doun,The feck o's wad been harried soon,In this era of taxation.
But times are changed—we dinna careThough we may ne'er drive leather mair,Be't stuffed wi' feather or wi' hair—For noo we're independent.At last a substance we hae got,Frae which for scarce mair than a groat,A ba' comes that can row and stot—A ba' the most transcendent.
Hail,Gutta Percha, precious gum!O'er Scotland's links lang may ye bum;Some purse-proud billies haw and hum,And say ye're douf at fleein';But let them try ye fairly out,Wi' ony balls for days about,Your merits they will loudly tout,And own they hae been leein'.
And noo that a' your praise is spent,Ye'll listen to a friend's comment,And kindlier tak on wi' paint,Then ye wad be perfection.And sure some scientific loon,On Golfing will bestow a boon,And gie ye a cosmetic soon,And brighten your complexion.
By the late Sheriff Logan.
"Farand sure! far and sure!" 'twas the cry of our fathers,'Twas a cry which their forefathers heard;'Tis the cry of their sons when the mustering gathers:When we're gone may it still be the word."Far and sure!" there is honour and hope in the sound;Long over these Links may it roll!It will—O it will! for each face aroundShows its magic is felt in each soul.Let it guide us in life; at the desk or the bar,It will shield us from folly's gay lure;Then, tho' rough be the course, and the winning postfar,We will carry the stakes—O besure!Let it guide us in Golf, whether "Burgess" or "Star;"At the last round let none look demure:All Golfers are brothers whendrivingisfar,When putting is canny andsure."Far and sure! far and sure!" fill the bumper and drain it,May our motto for ever endure;May time never maim it, nor dishonour stain it;Then drink, brothers, drink, "Far and sure!"
"Farand sure! far and sure!" 'twas the cry of our fathers,'Twas a cry which their forefathers heard;'Tis the cry of their sons when the mustering gathers:When we're gone may it still be the word.
"Far and sure!" there is honour and hope in the sound;Long over these Links may it roll!It will—O it will! for each face aroundShows its magic is felt in each soul.
Let it guide us in life; at the desk or the bar,It will shield us from folly's gay lure;Then, tho' rough be the course, and the winning postfar,We will carry the stakes—O besure!
Let it guide us in Golf, whether "Burgess" or "Star;"At the last round let none look demure:All Golfers are brothers whendrivingisfar,When putting is canny andsure.
"Far and sure! far and sure!" fill the bumper and drain it,May our motto for ever endure;May time never maim it, nor dishonour stain it;Then drink, brothers, drink, "Far and sure!"
Tune—Scotland yet.
Gaebring my guid auld clubs ance mair—Come, laddie, bring them fast,For I maun hae anither game,E'er the autumn season's past;And trow ye as I play, my lads,My song shall ever be,"Auld Scotland's royal game o' Gouf—Our country's game for me."Then here's a toast to Goufin' yet,Wi' a' the honours three.Throw by that walloping surtout—On wi' my auld red jacket—Haul aff thae gripless WellingtonsFor yon shoon wi' mony a tacket.Hang up that snoring Albert hat—Yon foraging-cap for me;And now a Golfer I walk forth,Frae worldly care set free.Then here's a toast, etc.Now, laddie, pouch thae Gourlay ba's,Wi' joy they'll dance a reel—My play-club capers in my hand,As supple as an eel.And see! my partner's on the green,His ba' upon the tee—Impatient, round he swings his club,Making heads o' gowans flee.Then here's a toast, etc.How sweet's the air upon the linksThat stretch along the sea!Where, bending down white clover heads.In silence sips the bee.Our steps how light! as on we speedO'er bouyant knowes o' balm,To where our balls in distance lie,Like mushrooms on the lawn.Then here's a toast, etc.And 'tween each stroke how sociallyAbreast in crack we go,And shape o' club and mak o' ba'Discuss wi' sportsman's glow.Then hale-lung'd laughter peals aloud,And banter stingless flies,And tears o' mirth astonished runFrom sad dyspeptics' eyes.Then here's a toast, etc.And when some rounds demand a rest,And appetite is keen,How sweet to taste the Golfer's fare,Reclining on the green!Ne'er aldermen at turtle feastWashed over with champagne,Rejoiced like us, as baps we tear,And jugs o' "Berwick's" drain.Then here's a toast, etc.Our caddies at our feet reclined,Their sheaves o' clubs at rest—Happy to hear the Golfers' lore,Chew on wi' silent zest.But up, like giants flushed with wine,Again our clubs we wield—We feel new vigour in our arms,And ardent take the field.Then here's a toast, etc.Thus on we've toiled at Dubbieside,But 'neath the Lomond hillThe sun has sunk, and the whirling dinHas ceased at Kirkland Mill.The sand-eel crowd is thickening blackBy the mouth o' Leven stream,And the weariedTarin Largo BayLets off the roaringsteam.So here's a toast, etc.So here's a health to our ain club,St. Andrews next, our mither—A bumper to Dunbarnie next,Our neibour and our brither:Auld Dubbieside salutes ye a';And if you wish to meet her,You'll find her ready at a ca',Wi' her gallant captainPeter.So here's a toast, etc.
Gaebring my guid auld clubs ance mair—Come, laddie, bring them fast,For I maun hae anither game,E'er the autumn season's past;And trow ye as I play, my lads,My song shall ever be,"Auld Scotland's royal game o' Gouf—Our country's game for me."Then here's a toast to Goufin' yet,Wi' a' the honours three.
Throw by that walloping surtout—On wi' my auld red jacket—Haul aff thae gripless WellingtonsFor yon shoon wi' mony a tacket.Hang up that snoring Albert hat—Yon foraging-cap for me;And now a Golfer I walk forth,Frae worldly care set free.Then here's a toast, etc.
Now, laddie, pouch thae Gourlay ba's,Wi' joy they'll dance a reel—My play-club capers in my hand,As supple as an eel.And see! my partner's on the green,His ba' upon the tee—Impatient, round he swings his club,Making heads o' gowans flee.Then here's a toast, etc.
How sweet's the air upon the linksThat stretch along the sea!Where, bending down white clover heads.In silence sips the bee.Our steps how light! as on we speedO'er bouyant knowes o' balm,To where our balls in distance lie,Like mushrooms on the lawn.Then here's a toast, etc.
And 'tween each stroke how sociallyAbreast in crack we go,And shape o' club and mak o' ba'Discuss wi' sportsman's glow.Then hale-lung'd laughter peals aloud,And banter stingless flies,And tears o' mirth astonished runFrom sad dyspeptics' eyes.Then here's a toast, etc.
And when some rounds demand a rest,And appetite is keen,How sweet to taste the Golfer's fare,Reclining on the green!Ne'er aldermen at turtle feastWashed over with champagne,Rejoiced like us, as baps we tear,And jugs o' "Berwick's" drain.Then here's a toast, etc.
Our caddies at our feet reclined,Their sheaves o' clubs at rest—Happy to hear the Golfers' lore,Chew on wi' silent zest.But up, like giants flushed with wine,Again our clubs we wield—We feel new vigour in our arms,And ardent take the field.Then here's a toast, etc.
Thus on we've toiled at Dubbieside,But 'neath the Lomond hillThe sun has sunk, and the whirling dinHas ceased at Kirkland Mill.The sand-eel crowd is thickening blackBy the mouth o' Leven stream,And the weariedTarin Largo BayLets off the roaringsteam.So here's a toast, etc.
So here's a health to our ain club,St. Andrews next, our mither—A bumper to Dunbarnie next,Our neibour and our brither:Auld Dubbieside salutes ye a';And if you wish to meet her,You'll find her ready at a ca',Wi' her gallant captainPeter.So here's a toast, etc.
By Mr. James Ballantine.Tune—Let Haughty Gaul.
Come, leave your dingy desks and shops.Ye sons of ancient Reekie,And by green fields and sunny slopes,For healthy pastime seek ye.Don't bounce about your "dogs of war,"Nor at ourshintiesscoff, boys,But learn our motto, "Sure and Far,"Then come and play at Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds of Bruntsfield Links will chaseAll murky vapours off, boys;And nothing can your sinews braceLike the glorious game of Golf, boys.Above our head the clear blue sky,We bound the gowan'd sward o'er,And as our balls fly far and high,Our bosoms glow with ardour;While dear Edina, Scotland's Queen,Her misty cap lifts off, boys,And smiles serenely on the green,Graced by the game of Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.We putt, we drive, we laugh, we chat,Our strokes and jokes aye clinking,We banish all extraneous fat,And all extraneous thinking.We'll cure you of a summer cold,Or of a winter cough, boys,We'll make you young, even when you're old,So come and play at Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.When in the dumps with mulligrubs,Or doyte with barley-bree, boys,Go get you of the green three rubs,'Twill set you on the "Tee," boys.There's no disease we cannot cure,No care we cannot doff, boys;Our aim is ever "Far and Sure"—So come and play at Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.O blessings on pure cauler air,And every healthy sport, boys,That makes sweet Nature seem more fair,And makes long life seem short, boys;That warms your hearts with genial glow,And makes you halve your loaf, boys,With every needy child of woe—So bless the game of Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.Then don your brilliant scarlet coats,With your bright blue velvet caps, boys.And some shall play therocket shotsAnd some theputting paps, boys.No son of Scotland, man or boy,Shall e'er become an oaf, boys,Who gathers friendship, health, and joy,In playing at the Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.
Come, leave your dingy desks and shops.Ye sons of ancient Reekie,And by green fields and sunny slopes,For healthy pastime seek ye.Don't bounce about your "dogs of war,"Nor at ourshintiesscoff, boys,But learn our motto, "Sure and Far,"Then come and play at Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds of Bruntsfield Links will chaseAll murky vapours off, boys;And nothing can your sinews braceLike the glorious game of Golf, boys.
Above our head the clear blue sky,We bound the gowan'd sward o'er,And as our balls fly far and high,Our bosoms glow with ardour;While dear Edina, Scotland's Queen,Her misty cap lifts off, boys,And smiles serenely on the green,Graced by the game of Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.
We putt, we drive, we laugh, we chat,Our strokes and jokes aye clinking,We banish all extraneous fat,And all extraneous thinking.We'll cure you of a summer cold,Or of a winter cough, boys,We'll make you young, even when you're old,So come and play at Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.
When in the dumps with mulligrubs,Or doyte with barley-bree, boys,Go get you of the green three rubs,'Twill set you on the "Tee," boys.There's no disease we cannot cure,No care we cannot doff, boys;Our aim is ever "Far and Sure"—So come and play at Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.
O blessings on pure cauler air,And every healthy sport, boys,That makes sweet Nature seem more fair,And makes long life seem short, boys;That warms your hearts with genial glow,And makes you halve your loaf, boys,With every needy child of woe—So bless the game of Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.
Then don your brilliant scarlet coats,With your bright blue velvet caps, boys.And some shall play therocket shotsAnd some theputting paps, boys.No son of Scotland, man or boy,Shall e'er become an oaf, boys,Who gathers friendship, health, and joy,In playing at the Golf, boys.Chorus—Three rounds, etc.
Tune—Clean Pease Strae.
WhenTom and me were laddies,Oor pastimes were but sma'—A game at common shinty,Or playin' at the ba';But lang since then a game we ken,Enticin' great and sma':A king I ween aroun' Leith greenHas often gowff'd the ba'.Wi' glorious Gowff brave Scotia's game,Oor youth comes back ance mair,When, swift and free as birds on wing,Oor balls fly through the air.The rays o' fortune's golden starMost earthly ills can cure;Gowff helps to keep the others "far,"Or makes their absence "sure."When ice is keen the curlin' steenWi' birr gaes straught awa',And cricket on the meadow green,Seems manly, brisk, and braw;But, laddie, tak a club in han',Then tee and drive the ba';Ye'll find the royal game o' GowffIs better than them a'.Oor volunteers wi' guns and spearsKeep foreign foes in awe;Noo Britain's youth shield north an' south,Laigh cot and stately ha';Sae ne'er a foe shall Scotland fearWhile Scotland's game we play,Though we should leave theputtin'greenTo buckle for the fray.
WhenTom and me were laddies,Oor pastimes were but sma'—A game at common shinty,Or playin' at the ba';But lang since then a game we ken,Enticin' great and sma':A king I ween aroun' Leith greenHas often gowff'd the ba'.
Wi' glorious Gowff brave Scotia's game,Oor youth comes back ance mair,When, swift and free as birds on wing,Oor balls fly through the air.The rays o' fortune's golden starMost earthly ills can cure;Gowff helps to keep the others "far,"Or makes their absence "sure."
When ice is keen the curlin' steenWi' birr gaes straught awa',And cricket on the meadow green,Seems manly, brisk, and braw;But, laddie, tak a club in han',Then tee and drive the ba';Ye'll find the royal game o' GowffIs better than them a'.
Oor volunteers wi' guns and spearsKeep foreign foes in awe;Noo Britain's youth shield north an' south,Laigh cot and stately ha';Sae ne'er a foe shall Scotland fearWhile Scotland's game we play,Though we should leave theputtin'greenTo buckle for the fray.
Printed byR. Clark,Edinburgh.
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Dialect and archaic spelling abound in the original and are retained here. Variations in hyphenation, punctuation, and use of accents appear as in the original, except as noted below.