My dainty lass, lay you the blame
Upon the richtfu’ heid;
‘Twas daft ill-luck that bigg’d yer hame
The wrang side o’ the Tweed.
Ye hae yer tocher a’ complete,
Ye’re bonny as the rose,
But I was born in Baltic Street,
In Baltic Street, Montrose!

Lang syne on mony a waefu’ nicht,
Hie owre the sea’s distress,
I’ve seen the great airms o’ the licht
Swing oot frae Scurdyness;
An’ prood, in sunny simmer blinks,
When land-winds rase an’ fell,
I’d flee my draigon on the links
Wi’ callants like mysel’.

Oh, Baltic Street is cauld an’ bare
An’ mebbe no sae grand,
But ye’ll feel the smell i’ the caller air
O’ kippers on the land.
‘Twixt kirk an’ street the deid fowk bide,
Their feet towards the sea,
Ill neebours for a new-made bride,
Gin ye come hame wi’ me.

The steeple shades the kirkyaird grass,
The seamen’s hidden banes,
A dour-like kirk to an English lass
Wha kens but English lanes;
And when the haar, the winter through,
Creeps blind on close and wa’
My hame micht get a curse frae you,
Mysel’ get mebbe twa.

I’ll up an’ aff the morn’s morn
To seek some reid-haired queyn,
Bauld-he’rted, strang-nieved, bred an’ born
In this auld toon o’ mine.
And oh! for mair I winna greet,
Gin we hae meal an’ brose,
And a but an’ ben in Baltic Street,
In Baltic Street, Montrose!