Would You Like To See A City Given Over, Soul And Body, To A Tyrannising Game? If You Would, There'S Little Need To Be A Rover, For St. Andrews Is The Abject City'S Name. It Is Surely Quite Superfluous To Mention, To A Person Who Has Been Here Half An Hour, That Golf Is What Engrosses The Attention Of The People, With An All-Absorbing Power. Rich And Poor Alike Are Smitten With The Fever; Their Business And Religion Is To Play; And A Man Is Scarcely Deemed A True Believer, Unless He Goes At Least A Round A Day. The City Boasts An Old And Learned College, Where You'd Think The Leading Industry Was Greek; Even There The Favoured Instruments Of Knowledge Are A Driver And A Putter And A Cleek. All The Natives And The Residents Are Patrons Of This Royal, Ancient, Irritating Sport; All The Old Men, All The Young Men, Maids And Matrons-- The Universal Populace, In Short. In The Morning, When The Feeble Light Grows Stronger, You May See The Players Going Out In Shoals; And When Night Forbids Their Playing Any Longer, They Tell You How They Did The Different Holes Golf, Golf, Golf--Is All The Story! In Despair My Overburdened Spirit Sinks, Till I Wish That Every Golfer Was In Glory, And I Pray The Sea May Overflow The Links. One Slender, Struggling Ray Of Consolation Sustains Me, Very Feeble Though It Be: There Are Two Who Still Escape Infatuation, My Friend M'Foozle'S One, The Other'S Me. As I Write The Words, M'Foozle Enters Blushing, With A Brassy And An Iron In His Hand . . . This Blow, So Unexpected And So Crushing, Is More Than I Am Able To Withstand. So Now It But Remains For Me To Die, Sir. Stay! There Is Another Course I May Pursue-- And Perhaps Upon The Whole It Would Be Wiser-- I Will Yield To Fate And Be A Golfer Too!