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;[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.