MONTROSE

Gin I should fa’,

Lord, by ony chance,

And they howms o’ France

Haud me for guid an’ a’;

And gin I gang to Thee,

Lord, dinna blame,

But oh! tak’ tent, tak’ tent o’ an Angus lad like me

An’ let me hame!

I winna seek to bide

Awa owre lang,

Gin but Ye'll let me gang

Back to yon rowin’ tide

Whaur aye Montrose — my ain —

Sits like a queen,

The Esk ae side, ae side the sea whaur she's set her lane

On the bents between.

I'll hear the bar

Loupin’ in its place,

An’ see the steeple's face

Dim i’ the creepin’ haar;

And the toon-clock's sang

Will cry through the weit,

And the coal-bells ring, aye ring, on the cairts as they gang

I’ the drookit street.

Heaven's hosts are glad,

Heaven's hames are bricht,

And in yon streets o’ licht

Walks mony an Angus lad;

But my he'rt' s aye back

Whaur my ain toon stands,

And the steeple's shade is laid when the tide's at the slack

On the lang sands.