Round and round we go

in the calm and in the gale

gentle air suddenly impaled.

Round and round we go

always back as first I came

among true spirits of the game.

A barren, timeless land tolled by bells,

Carved by wind and shepherds on watch,

Given to humble folk by noblesse oblige,

A low links from receding seas;

They walked the crook rounded at the estuary.

By ancient and royal measure, 83 acres without a tree

Evolving to 18 shots of whisky and holes of golf

A field of such complexity;

With but 11 greens and 16 fairways

The Old Course confounds to create,

A profound test for all full rounds.

Friends have passed by friends

For half a millennia in all seasons

Inhaling pure air at Sea's end.

In summer full joy at the long solstice light,

In winter girded against the cold wind and early night

The same friends passed by unrecognised

Except by the manner of the others' swing and stride;

Unseen bunkers evoked anger and mirth

For tall and slim or stout of girth.

Baptized upon our journey begun,

When life and all is lost and won,

Return we from whence we come.

Again the wee burn bids us in faith to cross

To safe home as did St Andrew upon his cross.

Round and round we go

in the calm and in the gale

gentle air suddenly impaled.

Round and round we go

always back as first I came

among true spirits of the game.