Jock, To The First Army By Violet Jacob

    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 wale^[1] o’ 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.“