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'. [Illustration] 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?