The Champions
Here they come noo, brawly skirlin'.
Chaunters wailin', drumsticks birlin'.
Lookin' sich a pictur' neat:
Auld Reekie's bobbies 'aff the beat'.
Straicht doon the street swings the band,
whiles yin an a' agree it's grand.
Pipers, drummers in array,
gang merchin', playin', day by day.
Jings, jist see the throngs that greet
these champions, 'lang Princes Street.
Sae mony cameras gang 'click'
as yon drum-major catches stick.
Kilts and spats an' pliadies wavin';
folk frae ithier lands are ravin',
when they hear a bagpipe air,
played wi' sich a Heilan' flair.
Sae proodly, there they stert anew,
stirring' herts wi' 'Donald Dhu.'
Or 'Geordie's Byre' or sich-like tune.
Pibroch's wail rins through the toon.
Though frien's maun pairt, an' patrons gang
frae shows o' drama, music, sang,
A'm shair that mem'ry willna' fade:
Oor pipin' policemen on parade.
