From the British Students Song Book:
Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;
Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,
Unless he goes at least a round a day.
The city boasts an old and learned college,
Where you’d think the leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge
Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.
Golf, golf, golf – is all the story!
In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,
Till I wish that every golfer was in glory,
And I pray the sea may overflow the links.
One slender, straggling ray of consolation
Sustains me, very feeble though it be:
There are two who still escape infatuation,
My friend M’Foozle’s one, the other’s me.
As I write the words, M’Foozle enters blushing,
With a brassy and an iron in his hand…
This blow, so unexpected and so crushing,
Is more than I am able to withstand.
So now it but remains for me to die, sir.
Stay! There is another course I may pursue–
And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser–
I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!