I heard, and as I gazed upon him,
Transformed he seemed, some change come o'er him;
He caught my eye, divined my thought,
And gave the explanation sought.—
'To honour you I've changed my suit,
My taste and style none can dispute;
I now assume my sporting dress,
The garb I wear when I mean business;
I've donned my tail, and doffed my boots,
You see me in my native cloots.'
Man's fond, familiar, friendly devil
Aye gracious, debonair and civil;
Smiling he stood, his arms akimbo,
The Deil himself, the Prince o' Limbo.

Oh, Jockie, crushed wi' grief and shame,
A prey to fear, remorse and blame,
Like vessel storm-stressed in the bay,
Her rudder gone, her masts away;
Left to the mercy of the waves, and tossed
A helpless hulk and well-nigh lost.
Belief in succour still remained,
The distant life-boat hope sustained.
So, stranded in this awful hole,
I turned to Heaven to save my soul.
I prayed, beseeched the powers on high,
To help me in my agony.
I prayed, as ne'er I prayed before;
In anguish keen I vowed and swore,
This trouble gone, this sorrow ended,
My wicked life should be amended;
This struggle o'er, this combat passed,
This drucken bout should be my last.
Then hope, sweet hope, began to flow,
And swell my breast with genial glow;
Self-trust and courage that had gane
Wi' fiery rush, cam' back again.
My native pride, love o' the game,
Blazed in my heart like altar flame.
I felt that tho' a fool I'd been,
I still could battle for the green.
Resolved, restored, I rose defiant,
O'er doubts and fears I sprang triumphant.
'Clootie,' says I, as cool and cheeky
As lawyer lad frae gude Auld Reekie,
'I'm willin' to resume the game,
A stroke a hole, and terms the same.
But had I kent what I ken noo,
And sober been, instead o' fou,
I'd seen you fried in your ain brimstane
Ere I had linked to sic a bargain.
A bargain ca' it, wi' changed condeetions
That won't admit of defineetions.
The man I bargained wi', in boots,
Is now a beast wi' tail and cloots,
And——'

'Confound your cheek, you old transgressor,
You phrase and jaw like a Professor.
Enough of all this d—d palaver,
Your blasted bletherin' and haver.
My tail, it is a thing of beauty,
By Jove, you'll find it do its duty.
Between us you will see such golf,
Ere long you'll cry "I've had enough."
Then tee your ball, resume your game,
Strike off once more for purse and fame.'

But Skipper, pause and kindly tell us
About that tail, it is so curious.

Why, Jock, the thocht o't gars me scunner,
With it he dealt me sic dishonour.
Albeit, it was indeed a stunner,
I canna think o't without wunner.
It was at least a fathom lang,
And tapered, at the end a stang
Like harpoon dart or arrow head,
Glittering and gleaming fiery red.
'Twas nae doot gey thick at the root,
But that was covered by his coat.
So soople, he could gi'e a skelp wi't,
Could licht his pipe, or pick his teeth wi't;
And at his pleasure, short or lang,
It telescoped up to the stang.
Besides it was a choice dumb caddie,
And quite as helpful as a laddie,
By his left side he made it swirl
Around his clubs, like snake to twirl.
They stood erect quite near and handy
As 'neath the arm o' Jock or Sandy.
To see him like a puddock squattin',
His tail stiff oot, the sod pat, pattin',
Viewing his putt to find the line,
'Twas enough to mak' a cuddy grin.
There was little grin in me that mornin',
I wasna in a mood for scornin'.

The game I was about to witness,
It wasna in my power to compass.
My fears they soon were realised,
And my poor play that I so prized
I saw eclipsed and beaten hollow—
A bitter pill for me to swallow.
Hole after hole he stole away,
With masterly and brilliant play.
And ever and anon he jeered me,
And with his cursed tail he skeered me.
That tail! It curled and squirmed and gleamed,
The stang it glowed, red-hot it seemed;
Whate'er it touched it brunt and bristled,
The very sod it scorched and frizzled.

I played my best, I strove and swat;
Wha could contend 'gainst foe like that?
A stroke a hole, what use to me
Against a Deil who averaged three?

Gude three-score years I'd kent the green,
And many a gallant match I'd seen,
Lang, lang before I was a caddie,
When golfin' daft a fisher laddie.
Wi' keen delight I still remember
The glorious gatherin's o' September,
When eager golfers came to seek,
And share the joys o' 'Medal Week.'
They mustered strong, a manly band.
The wale o' gentry o' the land;
Among them golfers known to fame,
Old hands, scratch players o' the game,
The Woods, Sir Hope, the gallant Grant;
That swiper grand, R. Oliphant;
Pattullo, Stirling, Messieux, Condie,
Holcroft, Playfair, Haig, and Fairlie;
Sir David Baird, Sir Ralph Anstruther,
All players stout, and many another;
Forby of course, a wheen o' duffers,
Second fiddles, middlin' golfers,
Most worthy men, but poor performers,
Like Mr Patton, Puddle Mudie,
Or cheery Small, the laird o' Foodie;
The rattlin' red-nosed Craigie Halket;
Flash Jim, the swell, for slang and racket;
Clanranald, spruce, the tartan dandy,
And, 'dem it,' sweet as sugar candy;
Mount Melville's laird, aye debonair,
True gentleman beyond compare;
Dundas, Gillespie, Wemyss, and Craigie,
Pitarro's bard, the wag Carnegie,
And stalwart Saddle, big and burly,
Tho' grim his look, he ne'er was surly,
'Twas he that swore or e'en pretended
That nature's laws were clean suspended
(Save us, mortals, sic a shame!)
To 'spite and spoil his little game!!'
Of handsome men a grand display,
As rarely seen on Summer's day.
Kilgraston's sons, Sir Frank the chief,
Falkland, Charlton, and Moncrieff;
And mony mair o' birth and name
That came to view the Royal game.
Blythe Allan then was in his prime,
The finest player o' his time.
Tom Morris, too, a lad of twenty,
Ere long renowned for honours plenty,
Good player still, an honest man,
As ever lifted club in han',
Long may he live the green to guard,
And at his pleasure sand the sward,
And when at last 'neath sod he's landed,
Wi' blessings may his grave be sanded.
And ither lads, professionals o' mark,
Kirks, Straths, and Pirie, Herds, and Park;
Besides a lot I canna' mind,
All clever players o their kind.
But ne'er a one a club could handle,
Play sic a game, or haud the candle,
To that auld limb o' sin, the rip,
Who had