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I CANNOT think that Death will press his claim
To snuff you out or put you off your game: You‘ll still contrive1 to play your steady round Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal2 ground And darkness blur3 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 mightiest4 Medal Day; Till saints and angels hymn5 for evermore The miracle of your astounding6 score; And He who keeps all players in His sight Walking the royal and ancient hills of light Standing7 benignant at the eighteenth hole To everlasting8 Golf consigns9 your soul. 点击收听单词发音
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