IN ENGLISH

O Rab an’ Dave an’ rantin’ Jim,

The geans were turnin’ reid

When Scotland saw yer line grow dim,

Wi’ the pipers at its heid;

Noo, i’ yon warld we dinna ken,

Like strangers ye maun gang —

“We've sic a waleo’ Angus men

That we canna weary lang.”

An’ little Wat — my brither Wat —

Man, are ye aye the same?

Or is yon sma’ white hoose forgot

Doon by the strath at hame?

An’ div’ ye mind foo aft we trod

The Isla's banks before?—

— “My place is wi’ the Hosts o’ God,

But I mind me o’ Strathmore.”

It's daith comes skirling through the sky,

Below there's naucht but pain,

We canna see whaur deid men lie

For the drivin’ o’ the rain;

Ye a’ hae passed frae fear an’ doot.

Ye're far frae airthly ill —

— “We're near, we're here, my wee recruit,

An’ we fecht for Scotland still.”