The time and date is:
2:19 pm Tuesday, 17 October 2017
* Home

Sections
* Ballads
* Ballad Features
* Burns
* McGonagall
* Other Poetry
* Scottish Writers
* Scots Glossary

Poets
* Alphabetical List
* Featured List

Poems
* List of Topics

Songs
* Scottish Songs
* Modern Songs

Submissions
* Submit a Poem
* Submit a Song

Policies
* Copyright
* Permission
* Privacy
* Standards

Web Links
* Other Sites

Contact
* About Us
* E-mail Us

The Pipe ©

Jim McRobert
Edinburgh, Scotland
2004

Tom an Faithir schemed awaw, thid get thi boe-y a pipe
A smert stemmed clay yin, wiz thi yin that baith men liked
He wid really look thi pairt, whin oot apoen thi hill
An he wiz fair rarin tae try it, an shair he hud thi skill

It wiz whin Tom wiz in Kare-ill, that he bocht thi perfict yin
A minitur as aw men smoked, wae some baccy in a tin
An faithir wiz delighted, tae him thi perfict pipe
Thae packt it foo o baccy jist thi wae that Faithir liked

Man thae thocht he lookt thi pairt whin next upon thi hill
But win thae thocht tae light it, thi boe-y he felt oor ill
Green an yella in thi face, he focht sae hard tae stan
His stomach churnt an heavt aboot, he wiz-nae feelin gran

Tears wur racin frae his een, he chokt an cocht wi pain
But practice wiz thi perfict coach, so he hud a puff again
Soon he wiz acceptd whin thi gethird in thi sheep
As he stumbld ower thi heather, wae his burnir at a peep

It wiz thi greatest secret, his Gran wid nevir ken
As thi sniggird in thi lobby wae aw thi fermin men
Till thi tak got roon thi county, tae reach a sertin ear
An the Postman telt thi Fishman, pittin folks aboot wae fear

Win Gran heard shi wiz ragin, hur tongue gaed thim sic a feed
An thi hung thir heeds in front o hur, bit outside didnae heed
Thocht thid tak it quae-it, gae thi pipe a rest
Bring it oot whin shid calmd doon; wur wummen no a pest

Wull thi day wiz sic a scorchir, thi sun wiz blazin doon
Thi gress wiz dry as tindir, aw aroon wiz broon
Thid gaithirid up every lamb an sheep frae aw across thi hill
As Faithir stoeppt tae licht his pipe, thi boe-y wid get a fill

Wull thi boe-y wiz keen tae licht it, he'd seen it done afore
He pleadit wae thim aw aroon, he pleadit lang an sore
Faithir he consented, an gaed thi boe-y a match
Thin turnt aroon tae speak tae Tam, at thi scratchin o thi match

Wae sic a whoosh wae in his hawn, as flame it took a hod
An tae his pipe he took thi match tae sook a-pon his wad
Thin he drappt thi match, he'd seen it done afore
Naw blown it oot as some wid dae, he wiznae sic a bore

Thi hillside went tae flames that day, wae forty helpers there
Taen oors an oors tae dows thae flames, thi grun wiz black an bare
Luck wiz wae thae puckle folk, nae chance fir winds tae tak
But thi look thae saw in Grannie's een wiz murdirus an black

Faithir goet thi message, its lesson wiz sae hard
Nae mair pipes fir this wee boe-y, smoking noo wiz barred
He hud been sae keen tae try, thae men thi perfict game
Tae teach a boe-y o five tae smoke yi shid bi aw ashamed


Web Site by IT-SERVE © 1999 - 2017 All Rights Reserved Return to top