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.