I tried the gowfin' when at Troon,
The links are bonnie there to see,
A warm September day flung doon
Its licht to gladden heart an' ee;
I had a cleek alang wi' me,
I made it wheel, I wasna slack,
Then to the caddie said, 'Now tee
The ba', an' stan' a wee bit back.'
A' games o' skill come never wrang
To ane wha has the nerve an' han',
Its just like croonin' a bit sang,
Or what a fule micht understan';
A' that ye need is just the plan,
An' where to fix a steady ee,
Then whirl the cleek, an' strike, an' than
Gang on to where the ba' may be.
I swung on high my shinin' cleek,
I struck, the caddie turned his back;
I thocht it better no' to speak,
Nor enter into ony crack.
But what a day to ha'e a walk,
Sae saft the turf, see green an' sweet,
An' then the sea laid oot a track
O' white waves to my very feet.
I dinna think I need to say
What mair I did in sic a case,
Some things are better hid away,
It gi'es ane better heart o' grace.
A bunker is an awfu' place,
An' tries the temper weel nae doot,
Ye dicht the sweit frae aff your face,
An' tine a' houps o' gettin' oot.
My frien' wha took me roun' the links,
An' got the cleek for me that day,
I aften wonder what he thinks
When he looks back upon my play.
I did my best to mak' my way,
But O, my shuider-banes were sair,
In fact, it's waur than mawin' hay,
My fingers—but I'll say nae mair.
They tell this story still at Troon,
That just when nicht begins to fa',
They hear a voice, wi' eerie soun',
That cries oot, 'Ha'e ye seen a ba'?'
An' then a cleek plays clink, an' a'
The san' springs up twa yairds or three—
What can that story mean ava',
And did that voice belang to me?