Pipers are Rare
Whae disnae like a bagpipe band
that dings oor lugs wi' Scotia's lay?
Yon skirls an' drones, an' mairchin' grand;
An' drummers tae.
Sporrans, kilts aboot their knees,
Ho'taps, spats or buckled shin;
Bricht tartan plaidies in the breeze.
Jist awfu' trim.
Belikes there's sadness in lament,
As chanters wail forgotten strife
o' clans – that ancient forebears kent
when feuds were rife.
“Blue Bonnets”, there's a tune tae pick;
Auld “Barren Rocks” a tale maun tell';
I ayeways think this tak's a trick -
“79th's Farewell”
It aye wis some wee laddie's dream
tae yin day play a bagpipe air;
Whae widnae hear the pipes, an' preen?
There's nane, a'm shair.
