Elegy on the year eighty-eight/Verses to a Bagpipe

VERSES

to

A BAGPIPE.

 

Hail! Bagpipe, hail! misca'd by some,
Wha on guittars an' fiddles thrum,
Wha duetts an' cantatas hum,
⁠In foreign twang;
Come! screed me up a dainty bum,
⁠A Highland sang.

The breathing flute, the trembling lyre,
Ha'e aften kindl'd saft desire—
Ha'e set the Bardie's saul on fire
⁠Wi' heavenly notes;
Come! Bagpipe, come! a sang inspire,
⁠O'gude braid Scots.

'Mang snawy hills by mists o'erhung,
Whare Galdus faught, whare Ossian sung,
The pipe has loud an' aften rung:
⁠The Clans afar
Lap at the sound; baith auld an' young
⁠They rush'd to war.

The pipers loud an’ louder blew,
The battle fierce an' fiercer grew,
The Romans ran, Norwegians flew,
⁠The Danes they fell,
An' few o' them gat hame, I trew,
⁠The news to tell.

In ither lands, by Ganges' banks,
Columbia's fields—Batavia's stanks,
The pipe has led the Scotish ranks
⁠Victorious on;
It weel deserves a nation's thanks,
⁠Tho' ca'd a drone.

Aft ha'e I seen the Highlan' crew,
Wi plaid an' kilt o' tartan hue,
Duneiden's streets parradin' thro'
⁠To cheerfu' drumin',
While "O the bonny white and blue,"
⁠The bagpipes humin'.

The squeakin' fife, the trumpet's blaw,
Ne'er charm'd a Highlan' lad at a';
Let "Owre the hills an' far awa'"
⁠On bagpipes rairin',
An' than he'll lay down ony twa,
⁠As dead as herrin'.

Returnin' frae the battle keen,
Lads wi' their lasses wad convene,
An' lilt it owre the gowany green,
⁠To pipes sae clear;
Their fathers frae their cluds wad lean,
⁠To see and hear.

Oh-on-o-ri! the chanter fails,
Whase music bum'd upo' the gales,
That rous'd the hills an' cheer'd the vales
⁠In days o' yore,
The pipe in unco lands bewails
⁠Its ain dear shore.

Wae's me! but dowie is the tune,
"Fareweel Lochaber," left owre ſoon,
The piper e’es the wanin' moon,
⁠In wastlin skies,
That hang his kintra hills aboon,
⁠A shield in size!

Och, Morven! a' thy music's dead,
The sheep are come, thy bairns are fled,
The mist-row'd ghaist, baith grim an' dread,
⁠His visage shaws;
The thistle shakes his lonely head
⁠On ruin'd wa's.

A' ye wha sud your kintra keep,
O dinna dinna fa' asleep;
Let Scotia's childer nae mair weep
⁠Their kintra's ills;
There's room for men as weel's for sheep,
⁠On Highland hills.

Rouse up the pipe's inspiring strain,
Till a' the Grampians ring again,
An' lear' the droopin' Highlan' men'
⁠Industry's arts;
Then Gallia's sons may try, in vain,
⁠To win their hearts.

M.

Edinburgh, July 13. 1799.

 

FINIS.

 

---

---

PRINTED BY DAVID WILLISON, CRAIG'S CLOSE,

EDINBURGH.

---

---