From Russian steppes to Africa-
I’ve plied me bloody trade.
An’ few an’ far between, the friends-
I guess tha’ I ‘ave made.
The blade’s me tool, me toil, my friend..
An’ oft she’s saved me life.
I love ‘er well, I must confess-
Like some lads love their wife.
I ‘ad a ‘ome, I swear I did-
Among the ‘ighland ‘eath...
An’ yet I ‘ad a yearn to roam,
Me Da’, ‘e did bequeath.
When I were scarce more than a lad-
I offed to see the world-
An’ oft I’ve stood in battle grim,
Whilst pipes aroun’ me skirled.
Ah, gi’ me pipes.. ‘tis rarely fine...
To ‘ear them bye an’ bye...
Their shriek an’ skirl, to enemies-
Mought be the banshee’s cry!
I’ve loved me lassies, fought me wars...
An’ ‘eard the widows wail...
An’ of I am, to fight again-
Thus goes the Traveler’s Tale.
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