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REPLY.
TWA pipers ilk wi' bag and drone,
Forgether'd in a wee bit town,
Grew unco great: The ane was Angus;
The tither Duncan. Wha can bang us,
Quo' they at playing on the pipes?
Forgether'd in a wee bit town,
Grew unco great: The ane was Angus;
The tither Duncan. Wha can bang us,
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Scarce had the word gaed out their lips
When up play'd Duncan Charlie's reel.
When up play'd Duncan Charlie's reel.
Angus he said he liked it weel,
And, in his turn he play'd the Boyne,
But Duncan said he wad na join
Sic revolution spring as that,
Mare than the Devil and black cat;
No play'd for laird or lady Mary,
Wha hated seugh o' Inverara;
And lik'd by nane but laland cotters;
Or what they ca' in glens, bog-trotters;
Wad stick to Charlie owr the water.
And, in his turn he play'd the Boyne,
But Duncan said he wad na join
Sic revolution spring as that,
Mare than the Devil and black cat;
No play'd for laird or lady Mary,
Wha hated seugh o' Inverara;
And lik'd by nane but laland cotters;
Or what they ca' in glens, bog-trotters;
Wad stick to Charlie owr the water.
Quoth Angus it is na great matter,
To my conception or my pleasin,
Out o' what mul I take my sneeshin;
Whether it is I blaw my cheeks,
To gar them loup wha ha' na breeks,
Or lairds or ladies wi guid beltin;
As muckle pleasure aft is felt in,
The seeing lads and lasses wallop,
Wha ha' sma' claes to hide their gallop,
As in the ha's o' pride, and plaiden,
Whare men ha' geer, and maids ha' claden.
Here man is nearer man; the lardie
Is no sae far aboon the bardie;
And she that frisks it wi' her neighbour,
Will na be laith to kiss the piper.
But why should ranters ban and banter,
But as they like blaw up their chanter?
The thing is a' but sound and ranting;
What need we care but for our canting?
And no gie hard words, or break crowns,
Because we canna suit our drones.
To my conception or my pleasin,
Out o' what mul I take my sneeshin;
Whether it is I blaw my cheeks,
To gar them loup wha ha' na breeks,
Or lairds or ladies wi guid beltin;
As muckle pleasure aft is felt in,
The seeing lads and lasses wallop,
Wha ha' sma' claes to hide their gallop,
As in the ha's o' pride, and plaiden,
Whare men ha' geer, and maids ha' claden.
Here man is nearer man; the lardie
Is no sae far aboon the bardie;
And she that frisks it wi' her neighbour,
Will na be laith to kiss the piper.
But why should ranters ban and banter,
But as they like blaw up their chanter?
The thing is a' but sound and ranting;
What need we care but for our canting?
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Because we canna suit our drones.
The same wi' us now canty Bruce,
Twa pipers that had different views,
And baith had music in our brain;
Ye play'd up R***; I play'd M'Kean.
And sooth, maun a' be Do'phin fish
That cam' to soom about your dish,
And a' are turn'd to ‘Fooks and Ravens,’
And very worst birds o' the heavens,
That listen to ray pipe or spring.
Twa pipers that had different views,
And baith had music in our brain;
Ye play'd up R***; I play'd M'Kean.
And sooth, maun a' be Do'phin fish
That cam' to soom about your dish,
And a' are turn'd to ‘Fooks and Ravens,’
And very worst birds o' the heavens,
That listen to ray pipe or spring.
Now toleration is a thing,
That's amiable in church and state;
And why should bardies derogate
Frae the same licence in their strains?
While men ha' different heads and brains,
The same things will na seem the same;
And he has the maist sense o' them,
Wha lets anither think and say,
And in his turn takes the same way.
I did na scirl, and clamour out;
And ca' ye a fa'se loon and lout;
Or say your pipe had lost its drone,
Because ye play'd up Ettison,
Though a' the sense that man can feel,
O' wrang frae that misguided chiel,
I had o' whilk ye nothing knew,
And ought t' ave had still less to do;
Unless like piper to a laird,
At hame in some great castle yard,
On droupit doup like dog at tether,
Ye blaw'd your cheeks up to a blether,
And play'd a spring just to his liking;
As bardies did to get a picking,
In auld times when the meal was scarce,
Frae failing ha'rst, or wasting wars.
That's amiable in church and state;
And why should bardies derogate
Frae the same licence in their strains?
While men ha' different heads and brains,
The same things will na seem the same;
And he has the maist sense o' them,
Wha lets anither think and say,
And in his turn takes the same way.
I did na scirl, and clamour out;
And ca' ye a fa'se loon and lout;
Or say your pipe had lost its drone,
Because ye play'd up Ettison,
Though a' the sense that man can feel,
O' wrang frae that misguided chiel,
I had o' whilk ye nothing knew,
And ought t' ave had still less to do;
Unless like piper to a laird,
At hame in some great castle yard,
On droupit doup like dog at tether,
Ye blaw'd your cheeks up to a blether,
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As bardies did to get a picking,
In auld times when the meal was scarce,
Frae failing ha'rst, or wasting wars.
Ah! no, my canty winsome Bruce,
Ye had na sic a guid excuse.
It was just thoughtlessness and folly,
Though it strake me wi melancholy,
To find my bardie take a part,
Against me wi his tunefu' art,
And though it touch'd me wi an ach
Yet, I forgave it for the sake,
O' our relation to the muse.
The mason word has na sic use,
O' brother-hood, as this same charm,
And whilk is got without the harm,
O' raising, or o' laying De'el.
Ye had na sic a guid excuse.
It was just thoughtlessness and folly,
Though it strake me wi melancholy,
To find my bardie take a part,
Against me wi his tunefu' art,
And though it touch'd me wi an ach
Yet, I forgave it for the sake,
O' our relation to the muse.
The mason word has na sic use,
O' brother-hood, as this same charm,
And whilk is got without the harm,
O' raising, or o' laying De'el.
But I maun bid you now fareweel:
I dinna ken I shall say mare:
'Am ganging frae this thoroughfare.
May ay the Muse, to you dispense,
The sowth o' sang, and pith o' sense,
And bony art to wale the words,
That make folk friends, and tighten cords.
I dinna ken I shall say mare:
'Am ganging frae this thoroughfare.
May ay the Muse, to you dispense,
The sowth o' sang, and pith o' sense,
And bony art to wale the words,
That make folk friends, and tighten cords.
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