THE BAGPIPES ©
Frank took out his bagpipes, one bright and sunny day,
and sauntering up the braeside, he began to play.
He began to play a lament, so teary and so sad,
it took him back to his boyhood days, when he was but a lad.
But suddenly the wind changed, and it blew right up his kilt,
it suddenly made him change his tune, into a merry lilt.
The heather and thistles, joined in this merry dance
and Frank blew so hard, they could hear him over in France.
The Frenchies sat a-listening, while they sat just sipping wine,
one lady was heard to say, "That music is divine."
So should you go a-wandering, or walk down Princes Street.
don't be too surprised, if a Frenchman you should meet.
For they too love pipe music, and will say with great defiance,
that is just another thing, that forged the 'Old Alliance'.
But some of them will query, as they tap upon their hat
"How do you tune up all those pipes? Should they be sharp or flat?"
The piper can play six eight time, standing by the byre
or he can play four four, and of this you'll never tire.
Pipes and drums you will hear, when in Scotland you arrive.
and everyone will welcome you, and for your comfort strive.
Watch the boats out on the blue, as out to Skye they toss,
or climb a brae in the breeze so fresh, and look for a caber to toss
There's heather too and thistles tall, some they are quiet pretty.
Then stroll down to the pub at night, for conversation witty.
So listen to the Pipers, as they play down by the burn,
you'll leave this place with sadness, vowing to return.
I once lived in Scotland, when I was oh so spry,
and some sound advice - "Jist see the Highlands, afore ye die!"