In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond 'Walkinshaw,
Where never ball had flown -
Reached by ourselves alone -
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan!

Yet, Nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled -
Not smitten from the bone -
That drive doth still atone;
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown!

So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the grey sad sea!



FRESHMAN'S TERM



Return again, thou Freshman's year,
When bloom was on the rye,
When breakfast came with bottled beer,