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!