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Bonnie Montrose
Poems and Songs By William F McHardy

Hello from Glasgow, Scotland

Attached is the official press release of the re publication of my great great grandfathers book of poem and song about his life and the town of Montrose back in 1899.

Originally I planned this as a birthday gift for my dad's 70th birthday, but now the project has an opportunity to be and do something special.

My dad has a history of cancer and heart problems and this led me to donating a large % of profits to Cancer Research and British Heart Foundation. Tesco, my employer has supported me with the book launch on 6th December 2014, and to say thank you they will receive 50p per book sale for their Charity Partnership.

My brother (colleague at Tesco) and authors namesake and his son Will feature in the new version along with words from my father and some special thank you to everyone involved, including the GP's and medical teams who have, and continue to look after my dad.

I would love you to support this story/project in any way you can as I know this could help raise this to a new platform and audience, over in Australia where the book makes several references to, of people leaving in 1899 for a new life Down Under.

Thank you in advance

Kindest Regards


Bob has kindly provided some information from the old book which is featured below and you can visit his web site at:

The book is available through Amazon and other online publishers and also at:

Bonnie Montrose
Poems and Songs By William F McHardy


"Some rhyme a neebor’s name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An” raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash -
I rhyme for fun!”


Dear Reader,

I feel a sort of a peculiar feeling lurking in my veins in regard to the publication of this my first book of poems, as to how they will be received by the public. It is with grateful heart that 1 thank the many subscribers who have so honourably come forward to assist me. Critics there will he, no doubt: they will find errors in plenty, but don’t judge your humble servant too harshly, for we are like receding waves rolling over the sands of time, to be swallowed up sooner or later in the unforseen hereafter, where critics, foes, and friends, meet face to face.

Standing by the sea shore, one cannot but listen to the murmur of the waters of the great ocean as the waves lap, lap upon the sandy shore, then the whish of the receding waves as they recoil back into the vortex of the never-ceasing music of the mighty ocean. So is the mind of the bard never at rest; sometimes soaring away in the sunny skies, by the lovely dale, on the ocean wave, at the fireside at e’en, and in the land of dreams, inhaling that blissful lesson which, alas, so many are ignorant of, viz.: the cultivation of the finer feelings.

If my little book, “Bonnie Montrose,” find a corner in your bookshelf, it is my only wish that when you turn over the leaves and read, it may bring to your memory happy thoughts of long ago.

Your humble friend,



"Montrose: my ain auld happy hame,
There's music in thy oouthy name;
Remembrance like a znornin’ dream
Flees aye to thee;
To our loved haunts by wood or stream,
Or daeliinif sea.”
—Smart's "Rambltno Rhymes."

MONTROSE, a Royal Burgh and seaport, gives the title of Duke to the Chief of the noble family of Graham. The town is situated on a flat sandy peninsula formed by the German Ocean, the river South Esk, and a large expanse of water called the Basin, It is accounted one of the first provincial towns in Scotland. The seal of the town is countenanced by an ornament of roses, and bears the following motto: "Mare ditat rosa decorat”—the sea enriches and the rose adonis. Its name is connected with many important events in Scottish history. It is mentioned by Froissart as the port from which Sir James Douglas embarked in 1330, with a numerous and splendid retinue, on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, carrying along with him the heart of Robert Bruce. It is distinguished as the first place in Scotland where the Greek language was taught, by teachers brought over by John Erskine of Dun, in 1534: and as having sent forth from its seminary the celebrated scholar, Andrew Melville. It was the birthplace of the warlike Marquis of Montrose, and the house in which he was born was occupied as an inn a good many years ago. It was the first port made by the French fleet in December, 1715, with the Chevalier on board; and that Prince embarked at the same place in February of the following year.

Standing on the high ground on Rossie Braes, on the south side of the town, looking north when it is high water the Basin on the left is like a mirrored lake, with the finely cultivated and fertile fields rising gracefully from its shores. The numerous surrounding mansions, occupied by the nobility of the county, basking in the shelter of thick and clustering woods, and away to the east the romantic cliffs of St. Cyrus bursts on our view, with the towering Grampians in the background, presents one of the grandest scenes in nature in the United Kingdom.

The Links are situated between the town and the sea, and are amongst the most extensive of any in Scotland; finely formed by nature for the favourite game of golf, which is greatly practised.

There is a well-equipped bathing station, attended by a qualified rescue. The bathing coaches are largely taken advantage of during the season, great numbers of visitors frequenting the town in summer. The golf course, the bathing station, expansive Links, and sea shore, are great attractions. There is a comfortable Pavilion with a verandah at the bathing station, where visitors can have shelter and refreshments.

The public gardens are worthy of attention. The Melville and Panmure Gardens are very neat and beautifully laid out, they are exceedingly pretty when the flowrers and trees are in foliage, and are admired by all who have the pleasure of seeing them in the summer and autumn months. There are numerous comfortable seats planted here and there throughout the gardens and Links, where you can rest and have a look around, while you inhale the aroma of the sweet smelling flowers. In the Melville Gardens there is a well kept Bowling Green, where an hour can be spent pleasantly for a small charge.

Entering from Bridge Street you reach the West End Park, a nice stretch of grass, with a well-kept winding path running through the centre of it, terminating at the green of the Montrose Bowling Club. There are some nice plots of flowers in the park, and the walls running along the east side of it, which were at one time washed by the waters of the Basin, are covered with ivy, which make the place rather charming.

The town is greatly indebted to the late Provost Scott, for the designs of the Melville and Panmure Gardens, the West End Park, and other improvements. He was a man of taste, and his works will make his name a household word in the town for generations.


Mas is subject to many trials
Of different kinds, hard and severe;
And stumbling blocks fall in our way,
Which fill our very hearts with fear.

To silly ways we’re prone to yield,
And selfish fancies fill our mind;
Our very thoughts arc ofttimes weak—
Perfection’s brink we cannot find.

Ofttimes we fain would brag and boast
What we can do, and what we’ve done
With haughty pride we ofttimes sneer
At others’ faults—blind to our own.

Poor, mortal man, aye discontent,
And will be here for evermore;
To satisfy us no one could,
Though richest treasures filk our store.

We envy oft our brother’s lot,
Ai:d curse his luck within our breast;
With joy would dance upon his grave,
If we were in his riches drest.

To-day our merry laugh resounds,
Both mirth and fun we glory in;
To-morrow finds us dull and sad,
Which shows there’s something wrong within.

To-day we build up mountains high,
To-morrow we intend to climb;
Alas! to-morrow ne’er we’ll see,
The bugle sounds “’tis time, ’tis time.”

To criticise man’s sojourn here,
Or purge the deeds which he has done,
And pass the Judge without a flaw,
Ah! Truth replies, “there is not one.”

Life is but a passing shadow,
And veiled in mist just like a dream,
Floating on and on for ever,
Down the vale like a running stream.

Till swallowed up in kindred soil,
Our bodies mixed with mother earth,
There to lie till the trumpet sound
That great; event — our second birth.

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