HOO ANDRA FOOZLED OOT

Some writings from the architect of the original golf course of the property. From "The American Golfer"

HOO ANDRA FOOZLED OOT

By TOM BENDELOW

The links were bricht an' bonnie

Wi' tartan an' wi' plaid,

When the pride o' Skeebo village

Play'd the best that Cleveland haid.

The play was fast and furious

As soon's the ba' was thwack'd,

But in the final test o' skill

Ae' point oor Andra' lack'd.

The caddies stood wi' bated breath

An' every ee was set,

For no a mon was in that crood

But had his siller bet.

Ae' caddie cried as wi' his club

Oor Andra' faced the ba',

"Hoot mon, play up, and show them noo

Hoo Skeebo beats them a'."

Oor John he never winked an ee

Nae maitter fat they said,

He kent old Andra's game gey well

An' it never fashed his head.

He kent that a' he had tae dae

Was play a waiting game,

Sae a' he did wis cracked a joke

Wi' him o' library fame.

A' even at the seventeenth hole

Was hoo the game did stand

When Andra' stepped up tae the tee

Wi' driver in his haun'.

Oor Andra' look'd up at the sky,

An' then doon at the dirt,

An' cannily he weigh'd his club,

An' loos'd his pleated shirt.

An' then he plaintit baith his feet,

An' syne replantit each,

An' swung his club St. Andrew's style,

As high as he could reach.

Grim death, at just that moment micht,

Hae been old Andra's wush,

For the atmosphere resountit

To a michty empty swush.

His club flew like a rocket,

But, alas, the weird decreed,

The ba' row'd twa feet sickly

An' just lay doon an' deid.

Oor John noo steeped forward

A' een on him were set,

An' caddies o' the Skeebo tribe

Looked dour and glum you bet.

John waggled free and easy like

As he looked doon at the ba',

Bit he wisna taking chances

Wi' old Andra' ava'.

Sae takin' extra care he drave

A laich and rinning ba'.

An' Andra' wis richt vext tae find

He'd be on the green in twa.

Auld Andra' took his trusty cleek

An' fire wis in his ee

Tae try an' make a brilliant shot

An' lat his backers see,

That he wis in the rinnin' still.

An' could the game still win,

By swipin' sic a mar-vellus shot

An' holing the next yin.

He missed the ba' an.d brake his club,

Then kicked it wi' his fit,

Which pit him far's the game's concerned

Just hors-de-com-bat.

Ah, somewhere in this bonnie land

The pipes skirl a' the day,

An' somewhere lads and lassies shout

An' men are passing gay.

But they're awfu' dour in Skeebo

An' nae joy is there aboot,

Sin' the day when, like ane "Casey,"

Ould Andra' foozled oot.