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.