Montrose Poem by Violet Jacob

GIN I should fa',
Lord, by ony chance,
An they howms o France
Haud me for guid an a';
An 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 ower 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
Lowpin in its place,
An see the steeple's face
Dim i' the creepin haar;
An the toon-clock's sang
Will cry throu the weet,
An the coal-bells ring, aye ring, on the cairts as they gang
I' the drookit street.
Heeven's hosts are gled,
Heeven's hames are bricht,
An in yon streets o licht
Walks mony an Angus lad;
But my hert's aye back
Whaur my ain toon stands,
An the steeple's shade is laid when the tide's at the slack
On the lang sands.