They gath­ered around PATTISON CORBY TORBAY, And played him some tunes in the tra­di­tion­al way. They start­ed with jigs, then to reels they did switch, But PAT­TI­SON’s mood did not improve one bit.

“This is tor­ture,” he cried, “not a joy­ous refrain! Oh, cease your wild play­ing, it’s hurt­ing my brain!” But CLONGLOCKETTY swore by the this­tle so sharp, He’d not cease his play­ing till dawn lit the harp.

And so through the night, till the ear­ly morn broke, The High­lands resound­ed with pibroch and smoke. The birds and the crea­tures were stirred from their sleep, Won­der­ing why such a din the glen did keep.

ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN stood by McCLAN, Her heart all aflame for the piper man. “Oh, ANGUS,” she whis­pered, “your music’s divine, It calls to my soul with a voice that’s benign!”

The piper, enchant­ed by ELLEN’s fair speech, Decid­ed right then the Sasse­nach to teach That the music of Scot­land’s both hearty and deep, Capa­ble of wak­ing those long in their sleep.

With dawn ris­ing pink over hill­side and stream, PATTISON CORBY admit­ted his scheme: “I see now,” he said, with remorse in his eyes, “The pipes sing of Scot­land’s clear skies and her cries.”

He packed up his gear, and he left on the morn, His sports and his sneers at the pipes now for­lorn. He’d learnt that the music, so wild and so strong, Was the heart­beat of Scot­land, vibrant and long.

And CLONGLOCKETTY, with his ELLEN so fair, Con­tin­ued to play with nary a care. For their love and the pipes in the High­lands did blend, A melody sweet that would nev­er end.

The moral, dear read­er, is clear to dis­cern: Respect for tra­di­tion one must always earn. For the music of Scot­land, with all its might, Binds the heart of its peo­ple, in joy and in plight.