I'm wearied wi' them, for it's aye the same
Whaure'er we gang,
Oor Captain thinks we've got his een to blame,
But, man! he's wrang;
I winna say he's no as smairt a lad
As ye micht see
Atween twa Sawbaths—aye, he's no sae bad,
But he's no me!
Weel, let the limmers bide; their bonnie lips
Are fine an' reid;
But me an' Weelum's got to get to grips
Afore we're deid;
An' gin he thinks he hasn't met his match
He'll sune be wiser.
Here's to mysel'! Here's to the auld Black Watch!
An' damn the Kaiser!
THE FIELD BY THE LIRK O' THE HILL
Daytime an' nicht,
Sun, wind an' rain;
The lang, cauld licht
O' the spring months again.
The yaird's a' weed,
An' the fairm's a' still—
Wha'll sow the seed
I' the field by the lirk o' the hill?
Prood maun ye lie,
Prood did ye gang;
Auld, auld am I,
But O! life's lang!
Gaists i' the air,
Whaups cryin' shrill,
An' you nae mair
I' the field by the lirk o' the hill—
Aye, bairn, nae mair, nae mair,
I' the field by the lirk o' the hill!
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;[2]
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.