‘ THE PIPES’

The voice of the violoncello

Brings peace and enjoyment to some,

The cornet appeals to one fellow,

Another enjoys a big drum;

The horn and the bugle, of melody frugal,

A third deems agreeably stirring,

The twang of the zither, the piccolo's twitter,

A fourth is preferring;

But none who attains to the years known as riper

Can fail to be moved by the pipes of the Piper!

O Piper, processioning proudly

Round tables where men sit at meat,

Performing your pibrochs so loudly

That no human voice can compete,

What memories tender your dirges engender!

Your wind-bag successfully squeezing,

You stir the affections and wake recollections,

Both painful and pleasing,

That soothe ( like a poultice ) or sting ( like a viper )

The hearts that respond to the pipes of the Piper!

O Piper, persistently plodding

At dawn round some castle in Skye,

Where guests ( with their ears full of wadding )

On couches of agony lie,

No thrush in the thicket, no frog, and no cricket,

No creature on land or in ocean,

Expressing its passion in musical fashion,

Can rouse such emotion

As sets the most soulless of Sassenachs wiping

The tears from his eyes at the sound of your piping!

Though many may term you infestive,

Discordant, or dull, as they please,

Or say that your skirls are suggestive

Of pigs being bitten by bees;

There's nought so exciting, for marching or fighting,

As sounds that your chanter produces;

No strains so entrancing, for dining, or dancing,

Or similar uses!

In peace or in war, for civilian or‘ sniper,’

There's nothing on earth like the pipes of the Piper!