me in his ugly grip.

Frae the 'Hole Across' in 'Hell' he landed,
That I foresaw it was intended.
As I gaed by I heard him laughin',
And with the little deils a-daffin'.
I fondly hoped he'd come to grief,
And with hole or half I'd get relief;
But no such luck, alas for me,
For again he nailed the hole in three!
The next three holes he did in seven,
And, Heaven preserve me, we were even!
My eight holes gane, the game a' square,
Oh, Jock, I shuddered in despair.

What skill o' mortal could prevail
Against a foe wi' cloots and tail!
The tail it now was blazin' red,
And from the point bright sparks it shed,
And squirmed and curled as if wi' glee,
Possessed wi' joy at leatherin' me.
Tremblin', abashed, depressed, I stood;
My threatened fate, it chilled my blood,
Cold swat bedewed me, froze my marrow,
I felt like puddock 'neath a harrow,
Or thief that views the rope a danglin'
Prepared and ready for his stranglin'.

The morning breeze blew cool and free,
Sweet, fresh, and caller frae the sea;
The sun, with ruddy cheek, had risen
Not long from forth his watery prison;
The strand was bathed with golden light,
And all was beautiful and bright.
As for auld Sin, he stood serene,
He little cared to view the scene.
His arms were crossed, one hand on chin,
And on his face sardonic grin.
With keen and glittering eye he viewed me,
And seemed to look right thro' and thro' me,
My poor heart throbbing with affright,
Full well he gauged my sorry plight.

'Skipper,' quoth he, 'how dost thou feel?
You've had your tussle with the Deil;
Hast got a lesson, eh, in Golf?
Just one hole more and then—enough!
I've seen your swagger, heard your boast,
Methinks I've got you now—on toast.'
Oh, Jock, so horrible his smile,
Just like a loathsome crocodile,
Wi' sea-green een, and dreadfu' snigger,
About to supper on a nigger!

Cool and composed I tried to look,
As calm as might an aged rook
On tree top perched, or giddy mast
Exposed to wild and stormy blast;
But still a shadowy hope remained
By my late fervent vow sustained,
That should the powers aboon preserve me,
Good play or fickle fortune save me,
To mend my life I would endeavour,
And cursed drink forswear for ever.

'Satan, you say, I'm yours to roast;
But you prefer me served on toast,
Like a fat kidney fried wi' bacon,
You'll find me teugh or I'm mistaken.
The honour's great, the compliment I feel,
To be a chosen tit-bit for the Deil.
But michty strange it seems to be,
Sic honour should be kept for me,
When you might have made selection
From swells and sinners o' distinction:
Ginerals, Cornels, and sodger gentry;
Gude kens! there's wale o' them and plenty!
'Mong Clairgy, Lawyers, and Professors,
Poor folk in trade, and sma' transgressors.
Save us man! You micht hae grippet
A Provost wi' an ermine tippet,
Or eke a consequential Bailie,
Or Councillor fu' wise and wily.
Instead, to nab a poor auld caddie,
'Twas mean,' I tell't him, Jock Pitbladdie.
'Cocksure you hae me in your grip—
There's mony a slip 'tween cup and lip.
Eneugh! I'm weary and half dead,
Lost or saved, I maun win hame to bed.'
At my free speech old Sooty growled,
And at me glared malevolent and scowled;
Then tee'd wi' care, his ball addressed,
And stood a golfer grand confessed.

Oh, Jock, I think I see him yet;
That scene I never can forget,
Broad-shouthered, slight o' powerful bield,
Long-armed, lean-shankit, strapping chield;
His fearfu' tail, red, stiff, and stark,
And at the end the gleamin' spark!
Gudesake, to think the Prince o' H—l,
At oor grand game should bear the bell!
He drove a long, low ripping shot,
O'er brig and road to the green he got.
I followed true, for me right good,
But, alas, I landed on the road!
My heart it sank, but I lay clean,
For muckle waur I might hae been.
I took my cleek—Oh, blessed happy lick!
Home went the ball fornent the stick,
Dead as a corp, or Julius Cæsar,
Baalam's ass, or Nebuchenezzar.
Forward I ran, richt eager, to the green
To see how good my luck had been.
Fortune indeed had smiled upon me,
I lay a dead and perfect stymie!
Auld Sin he looked as black as thunder
To be so foiled, I dinna wonder.
I sprang wi' glee, and gied a howl,—
'I've stymed the Deil and saved my sowl!'
'Villain!' he roared, 'You sot, you've done me,
My malison and curse be on ye!'
With that he struck me wi' his tail
Right on the stern, just like a flail,
So cruel, strong, severe a lounder,
In faith it felled me flat's a flounder.