At 'Hole Across,' the bunker of H—l,
To my surprise he kent it well;
He girned and cackled and looked excited
As if wi' secret thoughts delighted.
I drove weel o'er, wi' grand precision,
And lay serene on sod Elysian.
Clootie on purpose missed his ba',
And landed slap intil its maw.
Then, Jock, a sicht I saw, so strange and awfie,
Unseen, unheard o', and unlawfie!
Loud laughter rose from H—l within,
Wild shouts and cries o' welcomin';
While over the edge, peepin' and peerin'
Through the long grass, and disappearin',
Were seen strange forms, like horned apes,
And other brutes wi' fearsome shapes,
Goblins grinning wi' blazing een,
Bogles or ghaists, or a cross between.
But strange, when we the bunker neared,
They'd vanished all and disappeared.
And nocht remained but an infernal smell
Of brimstone reek, true stink o' H—l.
Clootie gaed smilin' in, rejoiced to be
At hame, his bonny bairns to see;
His ball he found, both safe and playable.
'Play quick,' cried I, 'this smell is d—able.'
'Pause, Skipper, 'tis my favourite scent,' says he,
'Bouquet d'Enfer, a perfume sweet to me.
You lack good taste, you drunken sot,
To me this is a charming spot;
But play I must,' and, as he spoke,
He drove forthwith a splendid stroke;
But of little good it proved to be,
For again I took the hole in three.

'Four up,' I said, 'my gallant foe;
If this goes on you'll come to woe.'
'All right,' says he, 'my chance will come,
I'll show you play when we turn home.
To see your game was such a treat,
Great was my luck with you to meet;
You are indeed a beauty without paint,
The picture of a drouthy saint.'
And thus he sneered and scoffed and chaffed,
While at my speech he mocked and laughed;
From fearing I began to hate him,
And vow'd I'd do my best to beat him.
But man is frail, and human vows
Aye come to nocht, when they oppose
The powers that rule for good or evil,
And my opponent was the Deevil.
Blind, stupid, and wi' drink demented,
I couldna see nor comprehend it;
But soon, alas! I learned the truth,
Wi' mental pain and muckle ruth.

The moon still shed its blessed light
And calm and lovely was the night.
Oh, Daavid! had you but been there,
Wi' your leemonade and your ginger-beer,
You might have saved me from despair,
And a' the horrors that befell me,
Which, Jockie, I am now to tell ye.
My game, I told you had been good,
Nine holes to play, eight up I stood.
Sick o' the game, and sicker far o' Clootie,
I'd ceased to care about the booty.
I thocht I'd bounce him wi' my swagger,
And get the better o' the beggar.
'Doctor,' says I, 'I've licked you into fits,
Throw up the sponge, play double or quits!'
'What!' shouted he, 'such cheek, you sot,
Dost think me daft, you silly Scot?
That wise old saw hast thou forgot,
"That he who suppers wi' the Deil,
Lang spoon maun hae to sup his kail!"'
Here, Jockie, I my temper lost,
I'd hae my say whate'er the cost.
'D—n you,' says I, 'you ca' yoursel' the Deil,
You are na blate my bonnie chiel.
The Deil's a saunt compared wi' you,
You yelley-livered, bandy-leggèd Jew;
Quack doctor, purse-proud swaggerin' Jack,
I'faith I'll lay you on your back.'

He listened, looked, and gravely smiled
To hear his Majesty reviled
By simple clay so easily beguiled.
Thoughtful he stood, and stroked his beard,
Then, Presto, vanished—disappeared!

Gone like a flash, I looked and wondered,
And as I gaped and gazed and pondered,
Beneath my feet the ground began to tremble,
With earthquake shock to rock and rumble;
And o'er the scene thick darkness crept,
Deep gloom prevailed, the soft wind slept,
Then lightning flared with vivid sheen,
Blinding and dazzling my bewildered een!
And thunder bellowed forth with awful roar,
Echoing from shore to sea, from sea to shore.
From Lucklaw to Drumcarrow, from Drumcarrow to Kinkell,
Roaring and rattling with resounding swell,
Peal followed peal, and flash on flash,
Hissing and rumbling with terrific crash;
The wind subdued burst forth anew,
And howling, whistling, wilder blew;
Deep groans and wailing filled the air,
Of souls in anguish and despair!
Loud shouts of 'fore,' and clash of cleeks,
And demon golfers' yells and shrieks,
Commingling with the mournful wail
Of sea-birds swept before the gale!

At last the thunder ceased and all was still,
Deep silence reigned o'er dale and hill;
Then forth a lurid radiance glowed,
Fan-like from earth to heaven it flowed,
Deep ruby red, the hue of blood,
And in the midst an awful presence stood—
Majestic, pale, towering in aspect grand,
Hell's chieftain, prince of the rebel band,
Who fell defying Heaven's command.
O'er lofty brow tossed his dishevelled hair,
A front deep lined with thought and care,
And eyes with shaggy eyebrows pent,
Which fierceness to their glances lent;
Those eyes which blazed with hate and sadness,
Strangers alike to hope, to love, and gladness.
With lips of scorn, whence insults leap,
And lies and calumnies and curses deep;
Scoffings, revilings, blasphemies malign
Against Omnipotence and laws divine!

With awe and terror struck, I trembling gazed,
Spell-bound, bewildered, and amazed
To think that I should hap to contemplate
The lineaments of H—l's great potentate!
With shuddering dread, I feared his eagle eye
Should wretch like me by cruel chance espy.
Alas, my fate! The hated glance it fell,
Nought could escape the blighting eye of H—l;
Staggering, I fell like riven oak
Struck to the earth by lightning stroke!

Jockie, my lad, I swooned away;
Of sense bereft, how long, I cannot say.
Hard by where old Daa drives his trade
O' ginger-beer and leemonade.
I felt the cool, soft morning air
To fan my cheek and raise my hair;
Conscious at last, I raised my eyes,
Conceive my horror and surprise,
To see friend Clootie stand before me,
Leering and grinning, bending o'er me!
My heart was well-nigh like to burst
With fear and hatred and disgust.
I cried, beseeched him to forgive me,
And begged him on my knees to leave me.
He laughed, and told me hold my jargon,
To stir my stumps, make good my bargain.
'The match you know,' he said, 'ain't ended,
And luck may turn, and mine be mended,
The remaining holes may fall to me,
Then Skipper dear, where will you be?
I've not had one, and eight you've taken,
You need one more to save your bacon—
One little hole, to save your soul!
I stand to lose name, fame, and purse,
Not that I care a tinker's