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.