Jock, To The First Airmy Poem by Violet Jacob

O RAB an Dave an rantin Jim,
The geans were turnin reid
When Scotland saw yer line growe dim,
Wi the pipers at its heid;
Noo, i' yon warld we dinna ken,
Like strangers ye maun gang--
'We've sic a wale 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 skirlin throu 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 dout.
Ye're far frae airthly ill-
-'We're near, we're here, my wee recruit.
An we fecht for Scotland still.'