Music of the pipes
On a lonely Scottish hill,
I always hear the bagpipes still.
Groaning groans of ghostly wail,
Sounding over a misty vale.
Without a pause they ease and wheeze,
Echoing through the glen and trees.
And racing through my heart with zest.
For this is when it beats the best.
They reap in a growling sweep
Weeping how the bagpipes weep.
Venting proud in low lament,
They play for men heaven sent.
The bagpipes moan their lowly groans,
Tones that were born in my bones.
A roundelay of heavens bray,
Blown in sounds the bagpipes play.
And when the reaper stays my eye,
I pray it's the pipes will say good-bye.