Here's to the sport of fair renown,
Here's to the roarin' game;
Here's to the stones that go gliding down,
Here's to the icy lane:
Here's to the skip with shout so bold,
Here's to his players' fling,
Here's to the game that is never old,
Here's to the songs we sing.
O curlers, come, we're brithers a',
Come join the curling game;
Our eyes are keen, our arms are true,
Our courage is aflame;
In winter air, and sport so rare,
The stones our weapons be,
We'll make the fight with honest might,
To gain the victory:
A man who is a curling man,
No better man than he.

A Skip's Prayer

The skip stood apart in the crowded room
Where a babble of talk made a horrid din.
In deep thought, he stood, with a look of doom
As he pondered the plight his rink was in.

His lips gave a twitch, as I walked past,
And softly I heard him begin to pray:
Dear Lord, we need your help as in the past
When we take the ice this very day!

Grant your aid, I pray, to my curling band,
When soon we step upon the curling ice,
And may my rink curl so very grand,
They'll be on the broom once or twice.

For my lead, I ask, that he have his weight;
For my second, I pray he delivers on broom;
May my vice, I beg, a strong house create;
May our take-outs sound like a sonic boom!

One last thing I'll add to this earnest plea,
And I ask from my heart with pious lip,
If you can't help our rink to victory,
Please Lord, don't help the other skip!

A Skip's Lament

The loser's drink of liquid cheer
Had given solace to the tired skip,
So what he said for all to hear
Came forth from firm but smiling lip.

We've played great games in recent years
Where skills were matched and play was even
But today's game confirmed my worst of fears,
Left little doubt with my one and your seven!

It seems whatever curling gods there be,
Against my rink came forth in full array,
And smiled on you but not on me,
When we played your rink this very day!

I asked my lead for front-house weight,
His stone went crashing to the clubhouse gate;
I called for a guard, and got a blast
That removed my counter, while I stood aghast!

I asked my vice for front-end weight
But a hogged stone was our sorry lot!
An easy draw I called for my last stone,
Was off the broom and the game was blown!

Meanwhile, your rink, my friend and foe,
Could do naight but watch your point score grow!
You'd place your broom and call your shot,
And lo, it would be perfect more oft than not!

And when, perchance, your stones were thrown astray,
They'd wick off other stones and stay in play;
Or when your guards were thrown off weight,
'Twould be my stones they'd abrogate!

Truly, my friend, I tell you this,
The curling game is not always bliss;
A scourge of furies from out of hell
Can keep any skip from doing well!

But enough of this lament! ... I claim
The score will change from game to game,
And a win or two will change my tune.
(And this, I hope, will happen soon!)

Curling Commandments

Thou shalt have no other game before me for I am the roarin’ game which was in the beginning (even in the stone age) is now and ever shall be!
Come not upon the ice with the old house broom. Thou can’t not quicken the pace of a dying rock with last year’s broom.
Thou shalt learn thy turns, both the out and the in. For the Skip will not hold him guiltless who throweth the wrong turn.
Plan not a running shot when asked for a guard, lest thy pass thine own shot through, so sending the Skip up into the air.
Such play getting his goat, queereth his game, causeth him to swallow his tobacco and to revile thee openly.
Thou shalt not strew straws off thy broom in the path of thine own or thy adversary’s rock.
Neither shalt thou introduce any foreign body in front of them, causing them to halt in their course and die suddenly.
Thou shalt not stealthily push or kick a rock into the house for the opposing skip shall know of a certainty and his anger will be kindled against thee.
Even to the breaking of his broom handle over thy head and thrusting thee hence from the sight of curlers.
Causing the end of the days of curling for this is an unpardonable sin.
Thou shalt have no discourse with thine adversary while his foot is in the hack and his hand is on the rock. But if thy wilt thou canst pray for him!
And when though comest to the last end and hast the game won and still has one rock to play – and this played with deliberation.
They rock gambols playfully down the ice sailing jauntily through the port and pusheth thine adversary’s rock into the house so that it counts him the end and the game.
And thou comes down the ice with fear and trembling and art hailed by the enemy as a good sport and a fine curler and by thine own side with groans and mutterings for having thrown the game away.
Thou shalt receive the proffered hand of thine adversary with a smile even though thou may wish it was his neck!

The Roarin' Game

A cauldrife sun keeks ower the hill, Shines on the snaw it canna thowe,

An' sparkles on the scruntit birks That gaird the lochan in the howe.
There curlers to the ice hae ta ' en, While winter bauds the land in grip,

 An' clear upon the frosty air I hear the voice o' Jock, their skip -
The weel-kent voice that aft I hear Shout to his collie on the hill.

I pause an' listen to his cries, His exhortations lood an' shrill.
"Hey, Tammas, can ye see this stane? Weel, dunt it oot noo; here's the port.

I like ye, aye, I like ye fine. Soop, soop 'er up! Eh, man ye're short!
Weel, try again then, elbow oot. Can ye get roon'? That's no' sae bad.

 Ye're comin', dod! Ye'.. get'm-dune! You for the curler, Tammas lad."
He wrings puir Tammas by the haun'. His neive can gi ' ea frichtsome grip.

 Oh! wae betide the denty loof That gets a shake frae Jock the skip.
He gi ' es nae praise that's no weel-earned, An' whiles he proves an unco rager;

 He'd flyte upon the laird himsel' Gin he was no' weel up, I'se wager.
"Noo, Doctor, juist a canny shot. Ye see this stane? Weel, chap an' lie.

 Soop, soop like bleezes, fine, sir, fine!- Man, but this roarin' mak's me dry!"
It's aye a "roarin' game" wi' Jock, His voice could droon a clap o' thun'er,

 A guid shot gars him loup for joy, A bad ane gars him grue wi' scunner .
"Can ye get through atween thae twa? Aye, pit your specs on, Doctor Chisholm,

Gey weellaid doon! She'll come Haud aff there, canny wi' the besom!"
But noo the mirk is fa'in fast, The lichts are gleamin' in the clachan;

 The inn-door, sweein' wide agee, Lets oot a burst o' merry lauchin' .
"Aye, this maun be oor hinmaist en'. We've bate ye fair an' square, I'se war'n;

An' , gin it doesna thowe ower nicht, Ye'll get your licks again the morn."

** soop=sweep, abune=above, Barley Bree=whisky, syne=since