I CANNOT think that Death will press his claim

    To snuff you out or put you off your game：

    You‘ll still contrive to play your steady round

    Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal ground

    And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green

    Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean.

    Saint Andrew guard your ghost old David Cleek

    And send you home to Fifeshire once a week！

    Good fortune speed your ball upon its way

    When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal Day；

    Till saints and angels hymn for evermore

    The miracle of your astounding score；

    And He who keeps all players in His sight

    Walking the royal and ancient hills of light

    Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole

    To everlasting Golf consigns your soul.