By Violet Jacob

     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;[1]
     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.

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