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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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