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.

[2] Sea-fog.

THE ROAD TO MARYKIRK

To Marykirk ye’ll set ye forth,
An’ whustle as ye step alang,
An’ aye the Grampians i’ the North
Are glow’rin’ on ye as ye gang. 
By Martin’s Den, through beech an’ birk,
A breith comes soughin’, sweet an’ strang,
  Alang the road to Marykirk.

Frae mony a field ye’ll hear the cry
O’ teuchits,[3] skirlin’ on the wing,
Noo East, noo West, amang the kye,
An smell o’ whins the wind ’ll bring;
Aye, lad, it blaws a thocht to mock
The licht o’ day on ilka thing—­
For you, that went yon road last spring,
  Are lying deid in Flanders, Jock.

[3] Lapwings.

KIRSTY’S OPINION