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."

[1] Choice.