Jock, To The First Army

A poem by Violet Jacob

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."

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