Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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The Pipers' Match.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
80
The Pipers' Match.
HOW FOURTEEN PIPERS PLAYED FOR THE PRIZE OF THE PIPERS' FIELD AT FIFE
O there was Bob the weaver's son;
Mad Jock the dusty miller;
Daft Wat the witless, baxter born;
Black Rob, a laird with siller;
Red Ranting Tom of Cupar town,
With Sandie Jim the ranger—
Not many played as droll a tune,
And never a lad a stranger.
Mad Jock the dusty miller;
Daft Wat the witless, baxter born;
Black Rob, a laird with siller;
Red Ranting Tom of Cupar town,
With Sandie Jim the ranger—
Not many played as droll a tune,
And never a lad a stranger.
Mad Jock began to screw his pipes
With grim determination,
As Tom struck up a pibroch tune
With snorting exultation.
Then Sandie Jim blew out the bags,
And his bull chest inflated;
His chaunter's nasal squeak and twang
Proved he was not o'errated.
With grim determination,
As Tom struck up a pibroch tune
With snorting exultation.
Then Sandie Jim blew out the bags,
And his bull chest inflated;
His chaunter's nasal squeak and twang
Proved he was not o'errated.
They played (Get up! what didn't they play?)
“The auld Wife's tapsalteerie,”
“The Laird's Farewell,” “Guide night to a',”
And “Eh, the Gloaming's eerie!”
“The Blood-red Feather Willie wore,”
“The Landlord's strapping Daughter,”
“The Blackbird's Song,” “The bonny Wren,”
And “The White Rose over the Water;”
“The auld Wife's tapsalteerie,”
“The Laird's Farewell,” “Guide night to a',”
And “Eh, the Gloaming's eerie!”
“The Blood-red Feather Willie wore,”
“The Landlord's strapping Daughter,”
“The Blackbird's Song,” “The bonny Wren,”
And “The White Rose over the Water;”
“Doodleum Dyke,” “The Tappit Hen,”
“The Droning dreary Weaver,”
“The Breastknot that my Jeanie gave,”
“The Douglas and the Riever,”
“The merry Bells of old Dundee,”
“The Deil and Simple Sanders,”
My Love is like the red, red Rose,”
And “The Fusiliers' March through Flanders.”
“The Droning dreary Weaver,”
“The Breastknot that my Jeanie gave,”
“The Douglas and the Riever,”
“The merry Bells of old Dundee,”
“The Deil and Simple Sanders,”
My Love is like the red, red Rose,”
And “The Fusiliers' March through Flanders.”
The old wives sat around and spun,
Their wheels raced through a chorus;
The old men, reeking pipe in mouth,
Cried, “Eh, the Lord who's o'er us!”
The children ran and leaped for joy,
The grunters set up squeaking;
They stopped the dominie's harangue,
And drowned the bethrell's speaking.
Their wheels raced through a chorus;
The old men, reeking pipe in mouth,
Cried, “Eh, the Lord who's o'er us!”
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The grunters set up squeaking;
They stopped the dominie's harangue,
And drowned the bethrell's speaking.
'T was morning when the pipes began,
'T was stark night when they ended;
I trow that many a bag next day
Had need to be amended.
All through noonday the fun went on,
Still getting hot and faster;
For every piper knew his art,—
Not one but was a master.
'T was stark night when they ended;
I trow that many a bag next day
Had need to be amended.
All through noonday the fun went on,
Still getting hot and faster;
For every piper knew his art,—
Not one but was a master.
Each player wore a wreath of leaves,
A crown extemporaneous;
Each squeezed his tardy swelling bag,
The chaunters blew spontaneous.
The fourteen pipers played their best
(Yes, two were undertakers);
The man who played the others down
Would win the Forty Acres.
A crown extemporaneous;
Each squeezed his tardy swelling bag,
The chaunters blew spontaneous.
The fourteen pipers played their best
(Yes, two were undertakers);
The man who played the others down
Would win the Forty Acres.
If fourteen pigs were running mad,
With fourteen butchers after,
Such would have been the sobs and drones,
The squeaks and eldritch laughter.
Oh, up and down the silver keys
Went with a lively rattle,
That drowned the gossips' noisy clack,
And all the children's prattle!
With fourteen butchers after,
Such would have been the sobs and drones,
The squeaks and eldritch laughter.
Oh, up and down the silver keys
Went with a lively rattle,
That drowned the gossips' noisy clack,
And all the children's prattle!
“Hey, Kettle Dee,” the pipers played,
And “The Bush aboon Traquair;”
“My Wife was a bonny wee thing,” sir,
“With the loveknot in her hair;”
“The Bruce's Death,” and “Dumbiedykes;”
“Oh, down among the Barley!”
“The Mermaid's Ballad,” “Caller hoo!”
And “The bonnie House o' Airlie.”
And “The Bush aboon Traquair;”
“My Wife was a bonny wee thing,” sir,
“With the loveknot in her hair;”
“The Bruce's Death,” and “Dumbiedykes;”
“Oh, down among the Barley!”
“The Mermaid's Ballad,” “Caller hoo!”
And “The bonnie House o' Airlie.”
Their voluntaries,—eh! the likes
Were never heard in heaven;
They'd play just now as soft as birds,
Then blazon out like seven;
They'd bray and hiss, and snort and squeak,
Then sham a wild bull roaring,
And all at once spring up like larks
Through April's sun-showers soaring.
Were never heard in heaven;
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Then blazon out like seven;
They'd bray and hiss, and snort and squeak,
Then sham a wild bull roaring,
And all at once spring up like larks
Through April's sun-showers soaring.
Quick, thin and fat, the bladder-bags
Grew every fitful minute;
There wasn't one but you had thought
A devil yelled within it;
A hiss, a spurt, a jerk, a groan,
And then a blurting screaming,
Wild sounds as of a kelpie's dance
Heard in a sick man's dreaming.
Grew every fitful minute;
There wasn't one but you had thought
A devil yelled within it;
A hiss, a spurt, a jerk, a groan,
And then a blurting screaming,
Wild sounds as of a kelpie's dance
Heard in a sick man's dreaming.
You've maybe heard the wedding tune,
When in the bride comes pacing,
And galloping each after each
The merry notes are racing;
You've heard the harvest dancer's song
At midnight growing riper,—
Double the noise, and you'll conceive
The tumult of the piper.
When in the bride comes pacing,
And galloping each after each
The merry notes are racing;
You've heard the harvest dancer's song
At midnight growing riper,—
Double the noise, and you'll conceive
The tumult of the piper.
How every foot went up and down,
As in the knees were turning!
The swollen cheeks squeezed up the eyes,—
You'd think the keys were burning,
So quick the whistling and the drone,
So quick the touch and go, sir,
As on they played, till out the moon
Seemed all at once to blow, sir.
As in the knees were turning!
The swollen cheeks squeezed up the eyes,—
You'd think the keys were burning,
So quick the whistling and the drone,
So quick the touch and go, sir,
As on they played, till out the moon
Seemed all at once to blow, sir.
With music drunk, their giddy heads
Saw all the steeples reeling;
The floor, the wall, the stools spun round,
And like a wheel the ceiling;
A witch's dance, the high-backed chairs,
The drawers and oaken table:
The great round world was on the spin,
And everything unstable.
Saw all the steeples reeling;
The floor, the wall, the stools spun round,
And like a wheel the ceiling;
A witch's dance, the high-backed chairs,
The drawers and oaken table:
The great round world was on the spin,
And everything unstable.
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The torrents leapt down sixty feet
To hear their “Maggie Lauder;”
The rows of fir-trees in the glen,
To the tune of “Over the Border,”
Moved up in rank; and all the fish
Within the brook's sweet bendings
Sprang in the air to hear the jigs
That circled without endings.
To hear their “Maggie Lauder;”
The rows of fir-trees in the glen,
To the tune of “Over the Border,”
Moved up in rank; and all the fish
Within the brook's sweet bendings
Sprang in the air to hear the jigs
That circled without endings.
The air grew dark with every witch
That had a horse to ride;
They ringed the moon with eldritch croon,
And yelled and screeched and cried;
Auld Nickie Ben was at their head,
Upon a he-goat straddling:
A witch's broomstick is a nag
That isn't long a-saddling.
That had a horse to ride;
They ringed the moon with eldritch croon,
And yelled and screeched and cried;
Auld Nickie Ben was at their head,
Upon a he-goat straddling:
A witch's broomstick is a nag
That isn't long a-saddling.
The Brownies stole out from the barns,
And left each flail and shovel;
The leper, tearing rags to strips,
Laughed from his lonely hovel;
The fairies, like a diamond wheel,
Spun round the mushroom tables,
Calling their bonny nags, the bats,
From the rat-haunted gables.
And left each flail and shovel;
The leper, tearing rags to strips,
Laughed from his lonely hovel;
The fairies, like a diamond wheel,
Spun round the mushroom tables,
Calling their bonny nags, the bats,
From the rat-haunted gables.
'T was Bob the weaver droopit first,—
His tune began to flutter;
Then Watty dropped his tiring arm,
And curses gan to mutter;
'T was quite a sight when Ranger Jim
Threw down his gold-laced beaver,
And cried, “The devil take the laird,
The baxter, and the weaver!”
His tune began to flutter;
Then Watty dropped his tiring arm,
And curses gan to mutter;
'T was quite a sight when Ranger Jim
Threw down his gold-laced beaver,
And cried, “The devil take the laird,
The baxter, and the weaver!”
A thousand reels they blew away,
Strathspeys and Tullochgorums,
Farewells and jigs and pibroch tunes,
With all their variorums.
'T was not till Sol had quite burned out
That Rob the laird gave over;
Then Ranting Tom blew out his bags,
And struck up “Jock's in Clover.”
Strathspeys and Tullochgorums,
Farewells and jigs and pibroch tunes,
With all their variorums.
'T was not till Sol had quite burned out
That Rob the laird gave over;
Then Ranting Tom blew out his bags,
And struck up “Jock's in Clover.”
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He tied a ribbon crimson red
Unto his silver chaunter,
And round and round the Piper's Field
He strutted,—Oh, the ranter!
They led him home, and on his way,
The hills of Kinlock over,
He played the golden moon adown
To the tune of “Jock's in Clover.”
Unto his silver chaunter,
And round and round the Piper's Field
He strutted,—Oh, the ranter!
They led him home, and on his way,
The hills of Kinlock over,
He played the golden moon adown
To the tune of “Jock's in Clover.”
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |