Jock, To The First Army

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."