A poem by Violet Jacob

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.

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